
iSSCKr.r. 





























































































































































. 






*>' 


*> 























































V 


























MISS GERTRUDE ELLIOTT AS MAISIE MR. FORBES ROBERTSON AS DICK HELDAR 




ILLUSTRATED POPULAR EDITION 

The Light that Failed 

BY 

Rudyard Kipling 


With Scenes from the 

Dramatic Version 

Rendered by 

Mr. Forbes Robertson and Miss Gertrude Elliott 


NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1903 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

SEP 21 1903 


A Copyright Entry 

CLASS XXo . No 

6 ^* 72 ^ 

COPY A. 



Revised , April, 3899 . 

Copyright, 1899 , 

By KUDYAKD KIPLING. 


DEDICATION 


If I were hanged on the highest hill, 

Mother o' mine , 0 mother o’ mine ! 

I know whose love would follow me still, 
Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o' mine ! 

If I were drowned in the deepest sea, 

Mother o' mine , 0 mother o' mine ! 

I know whose tears would come down to me, 
Mother o' mine, 0 mother o' mine I 

If I were damned of body and soul, 

I know whose prayers would make me whole, 
Mother o' mine, 0 mother o' mine I 



PREFACE 


This is the story of The Light that Failed as it 
was originally conceived by the writer. 


RUDYARD KIPLING. 













• * 













CHAPTER I 

So we settled it all when the storm was done 
As comf ’y as comf ’y could he ; 

And I was to wait in the barn, my dears, 

Because I was only three, 

And Teddy would run to the rainbow’s foot, 

Because he was five and a man ; 

And that’s how it all began, my dears, 

And that’s how it all began. — Big Barn Stories. 

4 What do you think she’d do if she caught us ? 
We oughtn’t to have it, you know,’ said Maisie. 

4 Beat me, and lock you up in your bedroom,’ 
Dick answered, without hesitation. 4 Have you got 
the cartridges ? ’ 

4 Yes ; they’re in my pocket, but they are 
joggling horribly. Do pin-fire cartridges go off of 
their own accord ? ’ 

‘Don’t know. Take the revolver, if you are 
afraid, and let me carry them.’ 

4 I’m not afraid.’ Maisie strode forward swiftly, 

B l 


2 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


a hand in her pocket and her chin in the air. 
Dick followed with a small pin-fire revolver. 

The children had discovered that their lives 
would be unendurable without pistol-practice. After 
much forethought and self-denial, Dick had saved 
seven shillings and sixpence, the price of a badly 
constructed Belgian revolver. Maisie could only 
contribute half a crown to the syndicate for the 
purchase of a hundred cartridges. ‘You can save 
better than I can, Dick,’ she explained ; 4 1 like nice 
things to eat, and it doesn’t matter to you. Be- 
sides, boys ought to do these things.’ 

Dick grumbled a little at the arrangement, but 
went out and made the purchases, which the 
children were then on their way to test. Revolvers 
did not lie in the scheme of their daily life as 
decreed for them by the guardian who was incorrectly 
supposed to stand in the place of a mother to these 
two orphans. Dick had been under her care for 
six years, during which time she had made her 
profit of the allowances supposed to be expended on 
his clothes, and, partly through thoughtlessness, 
partly through a natural desire to pain, — she was 
a widow of some years anxious to marry again, — 
had made his days burdensome on his young 
shoulders. Where he had looked for love, she gave 
him first aversion and then hate. Where he growing 


I 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


3 


older had sought a little sympathy, she gave him 
ridicule. The many hours that she could spare 
from the ordering of her small house she devoted to 
what she called the home-training of Dick Heldar. 
Her religion, manufactured in the main by her own 
intelligence and a keen study of the Scriptures, 
was an aid to her in this matter. At such times 
as she herself was not personally displeased with 
Dick, she left him to understand that he had a 
heavy account to settle with his Creator ; wherefore 
Dick learned to loathe his God as intensely as he 
loathed Mrs. Jennett ; and this is not a wholesome 
frame of mind for the young. Since she chose to 
regard him as a hopeless liar, when dread of pain 
drove him to his first untruth he naturally 
developed into a liar, but an economical and self- 
contained one, never throwing away the least un- 
necessary fib, and never hesitating at the blackest, 
were it only plausible, that might make his life 
a little easier. The treatment taught him at least 
the power of living alone, — a power that was of 
service to him when he went to a public school and 
the boys laughed at his clothes, which were poor 
in quality and much mended. In the holidays he 
returned to the teachings of Mrs. Jennett, and, that 
the chain of discipline might not be weakened by 
association with the world, was generally beaten, 


4 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


on one count or another, before he had been twelve 
hours under her roof. 

The autumn of one year brought him a com- 
panion in bondage, a long-haired, gray-eyed little 
atom, as self-contained as himself, who moved about 
the house silently and for the first few weeks spoke 
only to the goat that was her chiefest friend on 
earth and lived in the back-garden. Mrs. Jennett 
objected to the goat on the grounds that he was 
un-Christian, — which he certainly was. ‘ Then,’ 
said the atom, choosing her words very deliberately, 
‘I shall write to my lawyer-peoples and tell them 
that you are a very bad woman. Amomma is mine, 
mine, mine ! ’ Mrs. Jennett made a movement to 
the hall, where certain umbrellas and canes stood in 
a rack. The atom understood as clearly as Dick 
what this meant. ‘ I have been beaten before,’ 
she said, still in the same passionless voice ; ‘ I 
have been beaten worse than you can ever beat 
me. If you beat me I shall write to my lawyer- 
peoples and tell them that you do not give me 
enough to eat. I am not afraid of you.’ Mrs. 
Jennett did not go into the hall, and the atom, 
after a pause to assure herself that all danger of war 
was past, went out, to weep bitterly on Amomma’s 
neck. 

Dick learned to know her as Maisie, and at first 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


5 


mistrusted her profoundly, for he feared that she 
might interfere with the small liberty of action left 
to him. She did not, however ; and she volunteered 
no friendliness until Dick had taken the first steps. 
Long before the holidays were over, the stress of 
punishment shared in common drove the children 
together, if it were only to play into each other’s 
hands as they prepared lies for Mrs. Jennett’s use. 
When Dick returned to school, Maisie whispered, 
‘Now I shall be all alone to take care of myself; 
but,’ and she nodded her head bravely, ‘ I can do it. 
You promised to send Amomma a grass collar. 
Send it soon.’ A week later she asked for that 
collar by return of post, and was not pleased when 
she learned that it took time to make. When at 
last Dick forwarded the gift, she forgot to thank 
him for it. 

Many holidays had come and gone since that 
day, and Dick had grown into a lanky hobbledehoy 
more than ever conscious of his bad clothes. Not 
for a moment had Mrs. Jennett relaxed her tender 
care of him, but the average canings of a public 
school — Dick fell under punishment about three 
times a month — filled him with contempt for her 
powers. ‘ She doesn’t hurt,’ he explained to Maisie, 
who urged him to rebellion, ‘ and she is kinder to 
you after she has whacked me.’ Dick shambled 


6 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


through the days unkempt in body and savage in soul, 
as the smaller boys of the school learned to know, 
for when the spirit moved him he would hit them, 
cunningly and with science. The same spirit made 
him more than once try to tease Maisie, but the girl 
refused to be made unhappy. ‘ We are both misera- 
ble as it is,’ said she. 4 What is the use of trying to 
make things worse? Let’s find things to do, and 
forget things.’ 

The pistol was the outcome of that search. It 
could only be used on the muddiest foreshore of the 
beach, far away from bathing-machines and pier- 
heads, below the grassy slopes of Fort Keeling. 
The tide ran out nearly two miles on that coast, 
and the many-coloured mud-banks, touched by the 
sun, sent up a lamentable smell of dead weed. It 
was late in the afternoon when Dick and Maisie 
arrived on their ground, Amomma trotting patiently 
behind them. 

4 Mf ! ’ said Maisie, sniffing the air. 4 I wonder 
what makes the sea so smelly? I don’t like it.’ 

‘You never like anything that isn’t made just 
for you,’ said Dick bluntly. ‘ Give me the cart- 
ridges, and I’ll try first shot. How far does one 
of these little revolvers carry ? ’ 

4 Oh, half a mile,’ said Maisie, promptly. 4 At 
least it makes an awful noise. Be careful with the 


i THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 7 

cartridges ; I don’t like those jagged stick-up things 
on the rim. Dick, do be careful.’ 

‘All right. I know how to load. I’ll fire at 
the breakwater out there.’ 

He fired, and Amomma ran away bleating. The 
bullet threw up a spurt of mud to the right of the 
weed-wreathed piles. 

‘ Throws high and to the right. You try, Maisie. 
Mind, it’s loaded all round.’ 

Maisie took the pistol and stepped delicately to 
the verge of the mud, her hand firmly closed on 
the butt, her mouth and left eye screwed up. 
Dick sat down on a tuft of bank and laughed. 
Amomma returned very cautiously. He was accus- 
tomed to strange experiences in his afternoon walks, 
and, finding the cartridge-box unguarded, made in- 
vestigations with his nose. Maisie fired, but could 
not see where the bullet went. 

‘I think it hit the post,’ she said, shading her 
eyes and looking out across the sailless sea. 

‘ I know it has gone out to the Marazion Bell- 
buoy,’ said Dick, with a chuckle. ‘Fire low and 
to the left ; then perhaps you’ll get it. Oh, look 
at Amomma ! — he’s eating the cartridges ! ’ 

Maisie turned, the revolver in her hand, just in 
time to see Amomma scampering away from the 
pebbles Dick threw after him. Nothing is sacred 


8 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


to a billy-goat. Being well fed and the adored of 
his mistress, Amomma had naturally swallowed two 
loaded pin-fire cartridges. Maisie hurried up to as- 
sure herself that Dick had not miscounted the tale. 

‘Yes, he’s eaten two.’ 

‘Horrid little beast! Then they’ll joggle about 
inside him and blow up, and serve him right. . . . 
Oh, Dick ! have I killed you ? ’ 

Revolvers are tricky things for young hands to 
deal with. Maisie could not explain how it had 
happened, but a veil of reeking smoke separated 
her from Dick, and she was quite certain that the 
pistol had gone off in his face. Then she heard 
him sputter, and dropped on her knees beside him, 
crying, ‘Dick, you aren’t hurt, are you? I didn’t 
mean it.’ 

‘ Of course you didn’t,’ said Dick, coming out of 
the smoke and wiping his cheek. ‘ But you nearly 
blinded me. That powder stuff stings awfully.’ 
A neat little splash of gray lead on a stone 
showed where the bullet had gone. Maisie began 
to whimper. 

‘Don’t,’ said Dick, jumping to his feet and 
shaking himself. ‘I’m not a bit hurt.’ 

‘No, but I might have killed you,’ protested 
Maisie, the corners of her mouth drooping. ‘ What 
should I have done then ? ’ 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


9 


‘Gone home and told Mrs. Jennett.’ Dick 
grinned at the thought; then, softening, ‘Please 
don’t worry about it. Besides, we are wasting 
time. We’ve got to get back to tea. I’ll take the 
revolver for a bit.’ 

Maisie would have wept on the least encourage- 
ment, but Dick’s indifference, albeit his hand was 
shaking as he picked up the pistol, restrained her. 
She lay panting on the beach while Dick methodi- 
cally bombarded the breakwater. ‘ Got it at last ! ’ 
he exclaimed, as a lock of weed flew from the wood. 

‘ Let me try,’ said Maisie, imperiously. ‘ I’m all 
right now.’ 

They fired in turns till the rickety little revolver 
nearly shook itself to pieces, and Amomma the out- 
cast — because he might blow up at any moment — 
browsed in the background and wondered why 
stones were thrown at him. Then they found a 
balk of timber floating in a pool which was com- 
manded by the seaward slope of Fort Keeling, and 
they sat down together before this new target. 

‘ Next holidays,’ said Dick, as the now thoroughly 
fouled revolver kicked wildly in his hand, ‘we’ll 
get another pistol, — central fire, — that will carry 
farther.’ 

‘ There won’t be any next holidays for me,’ said 
Maisie. ‘I’m going awa} r .’ 


10 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ Where to ? ’ 

4 I don’t know. My lawyers have written to Mrs. 
Jennett, and I’ve got to be educated somewhere, — 
in France, perhaps, — I don’t know where ; but I 
shall be glad to go away.’ 

‘ I shan’t like it a bit. I suppose I shall be left. 
Look here, Maisie, is it really true you’re going ? 
Then these holidays will be the last I shall see any- 
thing of you ; and I go back to school next week. 
I wish ’ 

The young blood turned his cheeks scarlet. 
Maisie was picking grass-tufts and throwing them 
down the slope at a yellow sea-poppy nodding all 
by itself to the illimitable levels of the mud-flats 
and the milk-white sea beyond. 

4 1 wish,’ she said, after a pause, 4 that I could see 
you again sometime. You wish that, too ? ’ 

4 Yes, but it would have been better if — if — you 
had — shot straight over there — down by the break- 
water.’ 

Maisie looked with large eyes for a moment. 
And this was the boy who only ten days before 
had decorated Amomma’s horns with cut-paper ham- 
frills and turned him out, a bearded derision, among 
the public ways ! Then she dropped her eyes : this 
was not the boy. 

4 Don’t be stupid,’ she said reprovingly, and 


I 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


11 


with swift instinct attacked the side-issue. 4 How 
selfish you are ! Just think what I should have 
felt if that horrid thing had killed you ! I’m 
quite miserable enough already.’ 

4 Why ? Because you’re going away from Mrs. 
Jennett ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘From me, then?’ 

No answer for a long time. Dick dared not 
look at her. He felt, though he did not know, all 
that the past four years had been to him, and this 
the more acutely since he had no knowledge to put 
his feelings in words. 

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose it is.’ 

‘ Maisie, you must know. Tm not supposing. ’ 

‘ Let’s go home,’ said Maisie, weakly. 

But Dick was not minded to retreat. 

‘ I can’t say things,’ he pleaded, ‘ and I’m awfully 
sorry for teasing you about Amomma the other day. 
It’s all different now, Maisie, can’t you see ? And 
you might have told me that you were going, 
instead of leaving me to find out.’ 

‘You didn’t. I did tell. Oh, Dick, what’s the 
use of worrying?’ 

‘ There isn’t any ; but we’ve been together years 
and years, and I didn’t know how much I cared.’ 

‘ I don’t believe you ever did care.’ 


12 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘No, I didn’t; but I do, — I care awfully now, 
Maisie,’ he gulped, — ‘ Maisie, darling, say you care 
too, please.’ 

‘I do, indeed I do ; but it won’t be any use.’ 

‘ Why ? ’ 

‘ Because I am going away.’ 

‘Yes, but if you promise before you go. Only 
say — will you ? ’ A second ‘ darling ’ came to his 
lips more easily than the first. There were few 
endearments in Dick’s home or school life ; he had 
to find them by instinct. Dick caught the little 
hand blackened with the escaped gas of the revolver. 

‘ I promise,’ she said solemnly ; ‘ but if I care 
there is no need for promising.’ 

‘And you do care?’ For the first time in the 
past few minutes their eyes met and spoke for them 
who had no skill in speech. . . . 

‘ Oh, Dick, don’t ! Please don’t ! It was all 
right when we said good-morning ; but now it’s 
all different ! ’ Amomma looked on from afar. He 
had seen his property quarrel frequently, but he 
had never seen kisses exchanged before. The 
yellow sea-poppy was wiser, and nodded its head 
approvingly. Considered as a kiss, that was a 
failure, but since it was the first, other than those 
demanded by duty, in all the world that either had 
ever given or taken, it opened to them new worlds, 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


13 


and every one of them glorious, so that they were 
lifted above the consideration of any worlds at all, 
especially those in which tea is necessary, and sat 
still, holding each other’s hands and saying not a 
word. 

‘You can’t forget now,’ said Dick, at last. There 
was that on his cheek that stung more than gun- 
powder. 

‘ I shouldn’t have forgotten anyhow,’ said Maisie, 
and they looked at each other and saw that each 
was changed from the companion of an hour ago to 
a wonder and a mystery they could not understand. 
The sun began to set, and a night-wind thrashed 
along the bents of the foreshore. 

‘We shall be awfully late for tea,’ said Maisie. 
‘ Let’s go home.’ 

‘ Let’s use the rest of the cartridges first,’ said 
Dick ; and he helped Maisie down the slope of the 
fort to the sea, — a descent that she was quite 
capable of covering at full speed. Equally gravely 
Maisie took the grimy hand. Dick bent forward 
clumsily ; Maisie drew the hand away, and Dick 
blushed. 

‘ It’s very pretty,’ he said. 

‘ Pooh ! ’ said Maisie, with a little laugh of 
gratified vanity. She stood close to Dick as he 
loaded the revolver for the last time and fired over 


14 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the sea with a vague notion at the back of his head 
that he was protecting Maisie from all the evils in 
the world. A puddle far across the mud caught 
the last rays of the sun and turned into a wrathful 
red disc. The light held Dick’s attention for a 
moment, and as he raised his revolver there fell 
upon him a renewed sense of the miraculous, in 
that he was standing by Maisie who had promised 
to care for him for an indefinite length of time till 

such date as A gust of the growing wind 

drove the girl’s long black hair across his face as 
she stood with her hand on his shoulder calling 
Amomma 4 a little beast,’ and for a moment he was 
in the dark, — a darkness that stung. The bullet 
went singing out to the empty sea. 

‘ Spoilt my aim,’ said he, shaking his head. 

4 There aren’t any more cartridges ; we shall have 
to run home.’ But they did not run. They 
walked very slowly, arm in arm. And it was a 
matter of indifference to them whether the neglected 
Amomma with two pin-fire cartridges in his inside 
blew up or trotted beside them ; for they had come 
into a golden heritage and were disposing of it with 
all the wisdom of all their years. 

4 And I shall be ’ quoth Dick, valiantly. 

Then he checked himself : 4 1 don’t know what I 
shall be. I don’t seem to be able to pass any 


i THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 15 

exams., but I can make awful caricatures of the 
masters. Ho ! ho ! ’ 

‘ Be an artist, then,’ said Maisie. 4 You’re always 
laughing at my trying to draw ; and it will do you 
good.’ 

4 I’ll never laugh at anything you do,’ he 
answered. 4 I’ll be an artist, and I’ll do things.’ 

4 Artists always want money, don’t they ? ’ 

4 I’ve got a hundred and twenty pounds a year 
of my own. My guardians tell me I’m to have it 
when I come of age. That will be enough to begin 
with.’ 

4 Ah, I’m rich,’ said Maisie. 4 I’ve got three 
hundred a year all my own when I’m twenty-one. 
That’s why Mrs. Jennett is kinder to me than she 
is to you. I wish, though, that I had somebody 
that belonged to me, — just a father or a mother.’ 

4 You belong to me,’ said Dick, ‘for ever and 
ever.’ 

4 Yes, we belong — forever. It’s very nice.’ She 
squeezed his arm. The kindly darkness hid them 
both, and, emboldened because he could only just 
see the profile of Maisie’s cheek with the long lashes 
veiling the gray eyes, Dick at the front door deliv- 
ered himself of the words he had been boggling over 
for the last two hours. 

4 And I — love you, Maisie,’ he said, in a whisper 


16 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


that seemed to him to ring across the world, — the 
world that he would to-morrow or the next day set 
out to conquer. 

There was a scene, not, for the sake of discipline, 
to be reported, when Mrs. Jennett would have fallen 
upon him, first for disgraceful unpunctuality, and 
secondly for nearly killing himself with a forbidden 
weapon. 

4 1 was playing with it, and it went off by itself,’ 
said Dick, when the powder-pocked cheek could no 
longer be hidden, 4 but if you think you’re going to 
lick me you’re wrong. You are never going to 
touch me again. Sit down and give me my tea. 
You can’t cheat us out of that, anyhow.’ 

Mrs. Jennett gasped and became livid. Maisie 
said nothing, but encouraged Dick with her eyes, 
and he behaved abominably all that evening. Mrs. 
Jennett prophesied an immediate judgment of Provi- 
dence and a descent into Tophet later, but Dick 
walked in Paradise and would not hear. Only 
when he was going to bed Mrs. Jennett recovered 
and asserted herself. He had bidden Maisie good- 
night with down-dropped eyes and from a distance. 

4 If you aren’t a gentleman you might try to 
behave like one,’ said Mrs. Jennett, spitefully. 
‘You’ve been quarrelling with Maisie again.’ 

This meant that the usual good- night kiss 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


17 


had been omitted. Maisie, white to the lips, thrust 
her cheek forward with a fine air of indifference, 
and was duly pecked by Dick, who tramped out 
of the room red as fire. That night he dreamed 
a wild dream. He had won all the world and 
brought it to Maisie in a cartridge-box, but she 
turned it over with her foot, and, instead of saying 
‘ Thank you,’ cried — 

‘Where is the grass collar you promised for 
Amomma ? Oh, how selfish you are ! * 


CHAPTER II 


Then we brought the lances down, then the bugles blew, 
When we went to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two, 

Hidin’, ridin’, ridin’, two an’ two, 

Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra, 

All the way to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two. 

— Barrack-Boom Ballad. 

‘ I’m not angry with the British public, but I 
wish we had a few thousand of them scattered 
among these rocks. They wouldn’t be in such a 
hurry to get at their morning papers then. Can’t 
you imagine the regulation householder — Lover of 
Justice, Constant Reader, Paterfamilias, and all that 
lot — frizzling on hot gravel ? ’ 

4 With a blue veil over his head, and his clothes 
in strips. Has any man here a needle ? I’ve got 
a piece of sugar-sack.’ 

‘ I’ll lend you a packing-needle for six square 
inches of it then. Both my knees are worn 
through.’ 

‘ Why not six square acres, while you’re about it ? 

18 


CHAP. II 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


19 


But lend me tlie needle, and I’ll see what I can do 
with the selvage. I don’t think there’s enough to 
protect my royal body from the cold blast as it is. 
What are you doing with that everlasting sketch- 
book of yours, Dick ? 9 

‘Study of our Special Correspondent repairing 
his wardrobe,’ said Dick, gravely, as the other man 
kicked off a pair of sorely worn riding-breeches and 
began to fit a square of coarse canvas over the most 
obvious open space. He grunted disconsolately as 
the vastness of the void developed itself. 

‘ Sugar-bags, indeed ! Hi ! you pilot man there ! 
lend me all the sails of that whale-boat.’ 

A fez-crowned head bobbed up in the stern- 
sheets, divided itself into exact halves with one 
flashing grin, and bobbed down again. The man 
of the tattered breeches, clad only in a Norfolk 
jacket and a gray flannel shirt, went on with his 
clumsy sewing, while Dick chuckled over the sketch. 

Some twenty whale-boats were nuzzling a sand- 
bank which was dotted with English soldiery of 
half a dozen corps, bathing or washing their clothes. 
A heap of boat-rollers, commissariat-boxes, sugar- 
bags, and flour- and small-arm-ammunition-cases 
showed where one of the whale-boats had been 
compelled to unload hastily ; and a regimental 
carpenter was swearing aloud as he tried, on a 


20 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


wholly insufficient allowance of white lead, to 
plaster up the sun-parched gaping seams of the 
boat herself. 

4 First the bloomin’ rudder snaps,’ said he to the 
world in general; ‘then the mast goes; an’ then, 
s’ ’elp me, when she can’t do nothin’ else, she opens 
’erself out like a cock-eyed Chinese lotus.’ 

‘ Exactly the case with my breeches, whoever you 
are,’ said the tailor, without looking up. 4 Dick, I 
wonder when I shall see a decent shop again.’ 

There was no answer, save the incessant angry 
murmur of the Nile as it raced round a basalt- walled 
bend and foamed across a rock-ridge half a mile up- 
stream. It was as though the brown weight of the 
river would drive the white men back to their own 
country. The indescribable scent of Nile mud in 
the air told that the stream was falling and that 
the next few miles would be no light thing for 
the whale-boats to overpass. The desert ran down 
almost to the banks, where, among gray, red, and 
black hillocks, a camel-corps was encamped. No 
man dared even for a day lose touch of the slow- 
moving boats ; there had been no fighting for weeks 
past, and throughout all that time the Nile had 
never spared them. Rapid had followed rapid, rock 
rock, and island-group island-group, till the rank 
and file had long since lost all count of direction 


II 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


21 


and very nearly of time. They were moving some- 
where, they did not know why, to do something, 
they did not know what. Before them lay the Nile, 
and at the other end of it was one Gordon, fighting 
for the dear life, in a town called Khartoum. There 
were columns of British troops in the desert, or in 
one of the many deserts ; there were columns on 
the river ; there were yet more columns waiting to 
embark on the river ; there were fresh drafts wait- 
ing at Assioot and Assuan ; there were lies and 
rumours running’ over the face of the hopeless land 
from Suakin to the Sixth Cataract, and men sup- 
posed generally that there must be some one in 
authority to direct the general scheme of the many 
movements. The duty of that particular river- 
column was to keep the whale-boats afloat in the 
water, to avoid trampling on the villagers’ crops 
when the gangs ‘tracked’ the boats with lines 
thrown from midstream, to get as much sleep and 
food as was possible, and, above all, to press on 
without delay in the teeth of the churning Nile. 

With the soldiers sweated and toiled the corre- 
spondents of the newspapers, and they were almost 
as ignorant as their companions. But it was above 
all things necessary that England at breakfast should 
be amused and thrilled and interested, whether Gor- 
don lived or died, or half the British army went 


22 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP 


to pieces in the sands. The Soudan campaign was 
a picturesque one, and lent itself' to vivid word- 
painting. Now and again a ‘Special’ managed to 
get slain, — which was not altogether a disadvan- 
tage to the paper that employed him, — and more 
often the hand-to-hand nature of the fighting al- 
lowed of miraculous escapes which were worth tele- 
graphing home at eighteenpence the word. There 
were many correspondents with many corps and 
columns, — from the veterans who had followed on 
the heels of the cavalry that occupied Cairo in ’82, 
what time Arabi Pasha called himself king, who 
had seen the first miserable work jjound Suakin 
when the sentries were cut up nightly and the 
scrub swarmed with spears, to youngsters jerked 
into the business at the end of a telegraph-wire to 
take the place of their betters killed or invalided. 

Among the seniors - — those who knew every shift 
and change in the perplexing postal arrangements, 
the value of the seediest, weediest Egyptian garron 
offered for sale in Cairo or Alexandria, who could 
talk a telegraph-clerk into amiability and soothe the 
ruffled vanity of a newly appointed staff-officer when 
press regulations became burdensome — was the man 
in the flannel shirt, the black-browed Torpenhow. 
He represented the Central Southern Syndicate 
in the campaign, as he had represented it in the 


h THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 23 

Egyptian war, and elsewhere. The syndicate did 
not concern itself greatly with criticisms of attack 
and the like. It supplied the masses, and all it 
demanded was picturesqueness and abundance of 
detail ; for there is more joy in England oyer a 
soldier who insubordinately steps out of square to 
rescue a comrade than over twenty generals slaving 
even to baldness at the gross details of transport 
and commissariat. 

He had met at Suakin a young man, sitting on 
the edge of a recently abandoned redoubt about the 
size of a hat-box, sketching a clump of shell-torn 
bodies on the gravel plain. 

‘ What are you for ? ’ said Torpenhow. The 
greeting of the correspondent is that of the com- 
mercial traveller on the road. 

‘My own hand,’ said the young man, without 

looking up. ‘ Have you any tobacco ? ’ 

Torpenhow waited till the sketch was finished, 
and when he had looked at it said, ‘ What’s your 
business here ? ’ 

‘ Nothing ; there was a row, so I came. I’m 

supposed to be doing something down at the 

painting-slips among the boats, or else I’m in charge 
of the condenser on one of the water-ships. I’ve 
forgotten which.’ 

‘ You’ve cheek enough to build a redoubt with,’ 


24 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


said Torpenhow, and took stock of the new acquaint- 
ance. 4 Do you always draw like that ? ’ 

The young man produced more sketches. 4 Row 
on a Chinese pig -boat,’ said he, sententiously, showing 
them one after another. — 4 Chief mate dirked by a 
comprador. — Junk ashore off Hakodate. — Somali 
muleteer being flogged. — Star-shell bursting over 
camp at Berbera. — Slave-dhow being chased round 
Tajurrah Bay. — Soldier lying dead in the moonlight 
outside Suakin, — throat cut by Fuzzies.’ 

4 H’m ! ’ said Torpenhow, 4 can’t say I care for 
Yerestchagin-and-water myself, but there’s no ac- 
counting for tastes. Doing anything now, are 
you?’ 

4 No. I’m amusing myself here.’ 

Torpenhow looked at the aching desolation of 
the place. 4 Faith, you’ve queer notions of amuse- 
ment. Got any money ? ’ 

4 Enough to go on with. Look here : do you 
want me to do war-work ? ’ 

4 / don’t. My syndicate may, though. You can 
draw more than a little, and I don’t suppose you 
care much what you get, do you ? ’ 

4 Not this time. I want my chance first.’ 
Torpenhow looked at the sketches again, and 
nodded. 4 Yes, you’re right to take your first 
chance when you can get it.’ 


n THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 25 

He rode away swiftly through the Gate of the 
Two War-Ships, rattled across the causeway into 
the town, and wired to his syndicate, 4 Got man here, 
picture-work. Good and cheap. Shall I arrange? 
Will do letterpress with sketches.’ 

The man on the redoubt sat swinging his legs 
and murmuring, 4 1 knew the chance would come, 
sooner or later. By Gad, they’ll have to sweat for 
it if I come through this business alive! ’ 

In the evening Torpenhow was able to announce 
to his friend that the Central Southern Agency was 
willing to take him on trial, paying expenses for 
three months. 4 And, by the way, what’s your 
name ? ’ said Torpenhow. 

4 Heldar. Do they give me a free hand ? ’ 
‘They’ve taken you on chance. You must justify 
the choice. You’d better stick to me. I’m going 
up-con/ ^ry with a column, and I’ll do what I can 
for you. Give me some of your sketches taken 
here, and I’ll send ’em along.’ To himself he said, 
‘That’s the best bargain the Central Southern has 
ever made ; and they got me cheaply enough.’ 

So it came to pass that, after some purchase of 
horse-flesh and arrangements financial and political, 
Dick was made free of the New and Honourable 
Fraternity of war correspondents, who all possess 
the inalienable right of doing as much work as they 


26 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


can and getting as much for it as Providence and 
their owners shall please. To these things are 
added in time, if the brother be worthy, the power 
of glib speech that neither man nor woman can 
resist when a meal or a bed is in question, the eye 
of a horse-coper, the skill of a cook, the constitu- 
tion of a bullock, the digestion of an ostrich, and 
an infinite adaptability to all circumstances. But 
many die before they attain to this degree, and the 
past-masters in the craft appear for the most part 
in dress-clothes when they are in England, and thus 
their glory is hidden from the multitude. 

Dick followed Torpenhow wherever the latter’s 
fancy chose to lead him, and between the two they 
managed to accomplish some work that almost 
satisfied themselves. It was not an easy life in 
any way, and under its influence the two were drawn 
very closely together, for they ate from the same 
dish, they shared the same water-bottle, and, most 
binding tie of all, their mails went off together. 
It was Dick who managed to make gloriously drunk 
a telegraph-clerk in a palm hut far beyond the 
Second Cataract, and, while the man lay in bliss on 
the floor, possessed himself of some laboriously 
acquired exclusive information, forwarded by a 
confiding correspondent of an opposition syndicate, 
made a careful duplicate of the matter, and brought 


II 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


27 


the result to Torpenhow, who said that all was 
fair in love or war correspondence, and built an 
excellent descriptive article from his rival’s riotous 
waste of words. It was Torpenhow who — but the 
tale of their adventures, together and apart, from 
Philse to the waste wilderness of Herawi and Muella, 
would fill many books. They had been penned 
into a square side by side, in deadly fear of being 
shot by over-excited soldiers ; they had fought with 
baggage-camels in the chill dawn ; they had jogged 
along in silence under blinding sun on indefatiga- 
ble little Egyptian horses ; and they had floundered 
on the shallows of the Nile when the whale-boat 
in which they had found a berth chose to hit 
a hidden rock and rip out half her bottom- 
planks. 

Now they were sitting on the sand-bank, and 
the whale-boats were bringing up the remainder of 
the column. 

‘Yes,’ said Torpenhow, as he put the last rude 
stitches into his over-long-neglected gear, ‘it has 
been a beautiful business.’ 

‘ The patch or the campaign ? ’ said Dick. 
‘Don’t think much of either, myself.’ 

‘You want the Euryalus brought up above the 
Third Cataract, don’t you ? and eighty-one-ton guns 
at Jakdul ? Now, Fm quite satisfied with my 


28 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


breeches.’ He turned round gravely to exhibit 
himself, after the manner of a clown. 

‘It’s very pretty. Specially the lettering on the 
sack. G.B.T. Government Bullock Train. That’s 
a sack from India.’ 

‘It’s my initials, — Gilbert Belling Torpenhow. I 
stole the cloth on purpose. What the mischief are 
the camel-corps doing yonder?’ Torpenhow shaded 
his eyes and looked across the scrub-strewn gravel. 

A bugle blew furiously, and the men on the 
bank hurried to their arms and accoutrements. 

4 “ Pisan soldiery surprised while bathing,” ’ re- 
marked Dick, calmly. ‘D’you remember the pic- 
ture? It’s by Michael Angelo; all beginners copy 
it. That scrub’s alive with enemy.’ 

The camel-corps on the bank yelled to the 
infantry to come to them, and a hoarse shouting 
down the river showed that the remainder of the 
column had wind of the trouble and was hastening 
to take share in it. As swiftly as a reach of still 
water is crisped by the wind, the rock-strewn ridges 
and scrub-topped hills were troubled and alive with 
armed men. Mercifully, it occurred to these to stand 
far off for a time, to shout and gesticulate joyously. 
One man even delivered himself of a long story. 
The camel-corps did not fire. They were only too 
glad of a little breathing-space, until some sort of 


II 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


29 


square could be formed. The men on the sand-bank 
ran to their side ; and the whale-boats, as they 
toiled up within shouting distance, were thrust into 
the nearest bank and emptied of all save the sick 
and a few men to guard them. The Arab orator 
ceased his outcries, and his friends howled. 

‘They look like the Mahdi’s men,’ said Torpen- 
liow, elbowing himself into the crush of the square ; 
‘ but what thousands of ’em there are ! The tribes 
hereabout aren’t against us, I know.’ 

‘ Then the Mahdi’s taken another 'town,’ said 
Dick, ‘and set all these yelping devils free to chaw 
us up. Lend us your glass.’ 

‘ Our scouts should have told us of this. We’ve 
been trapped,’ said a subaltern. ‘Aren’t the camel- 
guns ever going to begin ? Hurry up, you men ! ’ 

There was no need for any order. The men 
flung themselves panting against the sides of the 
square, for they had good reason to know that 
whoso was left outside when the fighting began 
would very probably die in an extremely unpleasant 
fashion. The little hundred-and-fifty-pound camel- 
guns posted at one corner of the square opened the 
ball as the square moved forward by its right to 
get possession of a knoll of rising ground. All 
had fought in this manner many times before, and 
there was no novelty in the entertainment: always 


30 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the same hot and stifling formation, the smell of 
dust and leather, the same boltlike rush of the 
enemy, the same pressure on the weakest side, 
the few minutes of hand-to-hand scuffle, and then 
the silence of the desert, broken only by the yells 
of those whom their handful of cavalry attempted 
to pursue. They had become careless. The camel- 
guns spoke at intervals, and the square slouched 
forward amid the protesting of the camels. Then 
came the attack of three thousand men who had 
not learned from books that it is impossible for 
troops in close order to attack against breech- 
loading fire. A few dropping shots heralded their 
approach, and a few horsemen led, but the bulk 
of the force was naked humanity, mad with rage, 
and armed with the spear and the sword. The 
instinct of the desert, where there is always much 
war, told them that the right flank of the square 
was the weakest, for they swung clear of the 
front. The camel-guns shelled them as they passed, 
and opened for an instant lanes through their 
midst, most like those quick-closing vistas in a 
Kentish hop-garden seen when the train races by 
at full speed; and the infantry fire, held till the 
opportune moment, dropped them in close-packed 
hundreds. No civilised troops in the world could 
have endured the hell through which they came, the 



HOW GOOD IT IS TO SEE! 




















- 


























































































V 
















































































































II 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


31 


living leaping high to avoid the dying who clutched 
at their heels, the wounded cursing and staggering 
forward, till they fell — a torrent black as the sliding 
water above a mill-dam — full on the right flank of 
the square. Then the line of the dusty troops and 
the faint blue desert sky overhead went out in 
rolling smoke, and the little stones on the heated 
ground and the tinder-dry clumps of scrub became 
matters of surpassing interest, for men measured 
their agonised retreat and recovery by these things, 
counting mechanically and hewing their way back 
to chosen pebble and branch. There was no sem- 
blance of any concerted fighting. For aught the 
men knew, the enemy might be attempting all four 
sides of the square at once. Their business was to 
destroy what lay in front of them, to bayonet in the 
back those who passed over them, and, dying, to 
drag down the slayer till he could be knocked on 
the head by some avenging gun-butt. Dick waited 
with Torpenhow and a young doctor till the stress 
grew unendurable. It was hopeless to attend to 
the wounded till the attack was repulsed, so the 
three moved forward gingerly towards the weakest 
side of the square. There was a rush from without, 
the short hough-liough of the stabbing spears, and a 
man on a horse, followed by thirty or forty others, 
dashed through, yelling and hacking. The right 


32 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


flank of the square sucked in after them, and the 
other sides sent help. The wounded, who knew 
that they had but a few hours more to live, caught 
at the enemy’s feet and brought them down, or, 
staggering to a discarded rifle, fired blindly into the 
scuffle that raged in the centre of the square. Dick 
was conscious that somebody had cut him violently 
across his helmet, that he had fired his revolver into 
a black, foam-flecked face which forthwith ceased to 
bear any resemblance to a face, and that Torpenhow 
had gone down under an Arab whom he had tried 
to 4 collar low,’ and was turning over and over 
with his captive, feeling for the man’s eyes. The 
doctor jabbed at a venture with a bayonet, and 
a helmetless soldier fired over Dick’s shoulder : 
the flying grains of powder stung his cheek. It 
was to Torpenhow that Dick turned by instinct. 
The representative of the Central Southern Syndicate 
had shaken himself clear of his enemy, and rose, 
wiping his thumb on his trousers. The Arab, both 
hands to his forehead, screamed aloud, then snatched 
up his spear and rushed at Torpenhow, who was 
panting under shelter of Dick’s revolver. Dick fired 
twice, and the man dropped limply. His upturned 
face lacked one eye. The musketry-fire redoubled, 
but cheers mingled with it. The rush had failed 
and the enemy were flying. If the heart of the 


II 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


33 


square were shambles, the ground beyond was a 
butcher’s shop. Dick thrust his way forward 
between the maddened men. The remnant of the 
enemy were retiring, as the few — the very few — 
English cavalry rode down the laggards. 

Beyond the lines of the dead, a broad blood- 
stained Arab spear cast aside in the retreat lay 
across a stump of scrub, and beyond this again the 
illimitable dark levels of the desert. The sun 
caught the steel and turned it into a red disc. 
Some one behind him was saying, ‘Ah, get away, 
you brute ! ’ Dick raised his revolver and pointed 
towards the desert. His eye was held by the red 
splash in the distance, and the clamour about him 
seemed to die down to a very far-away whisper, 
like the whisper of a level sea. There was the 
revolver and the red light, . . . and the voice of 
some one scaring something away, exactly as had 
fallen somewhere before, — probably in a past life. 
Dick waited for what should happen afterwards. 
Something seemed to crack inside his head, and for 
an instant he stood in the dark, — a darkness that 
stung. He fired at random, and the bullet went 
out across the desert as he muttered, ‘Spoilt my 
aim. There aren’t any more cartridges. We shall 
have to run home/j He put his hand to his head 
and brought it away covered with blood. 


34 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. II 


‘Old man, you’re cut rather badly,’ said Torpen- 
how. ‘I owe you something for this . business. 
Thanks. Stand up ! I say, you can’t be ill here.’ 

Dick had fallen stiffly, on Torpenhow’s shoulder, 
and muttered something about aiming low and to 
the left. Then he sank to the ground and was 
silent. Torpenhow dragged him off to a doctor and 
sat down to work out an account of what he was 
pleased to call ‘a sanguinary battle, in which our 
arms had acquitted themselves,’ etc. 

Throughout that night, when the troops were en- 
camped by the whale-boats, a black figure danced 
in the strong moonlight on the sand-bar and shouted 
that Khartoum the accursed one was dead, — was 
dead, — was dead, — that two steamers were rock- 
staked on the Nile outside the city, and that of all 
their crews there remained not one ; and Khartoum 
was dead, — - was dead, — was dead ! 

But Torpenhow took no heed. He was watch- 
ing Dick, who called aloud to the restless Nile for 
Maisie, — and again Maisie ! 

‘Behold a phenomenon,’ said Torpenhow, re- 
arranging the blanket. ‘ Here is a man, presumably 
human, who mentions the name of one woman only. 
And I’ve seen a good deal of delirium, too. — Dick, 
here’s some fizzy drink.’ * 

‘ Thank you, Maisie,’ said Dick. 


CHAPTER III 

So lie thinks he shall take to the sea again 
For one more cruise with his buccaneers, 

To singe the beard of the King of Spain, 

And capture another Dean of Jaen 
And sell him in Algiers. — A Dutch Picture. Longfellow. 

The Soudan campaign and Dick’s broken head had 
been some months ended and mended, and the 
Central Southern Syndicate had paid Dick a certain 
sum on account for work done, which work they 
were careful to assure him was not altogether up 
to their standard. Dick heaved the letter into the 
Nile at Cairo, cashed the draft in the same town, 
and bade a warm farewell to Torpenhow at the 
station. 

4 1 am going to lie up for a while and rest,’ said 
Torpenhow. 4 1 don’t know where I shall live in 
London, but if God brings us to meet, we shall 
meet. Are you staying here on the off-chance of 
another row? There will be none till the Southern 


36 


36 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Soudan is reoccupied by our troops. Mark that. 
Good-bye ; bless you ; come back when your money’s 
spent ; and give me your address.’ 

Dick loitered in Cairo, Alexandria, Isma’ilia, and 
Port Said, — especially Port Said. There is iniquity 
in many parts of the world, and vice in all, but the 
concentrated essence of all the iniquities and all 
the vices in all the continents finds itself at Port 
Said. And through the heart of that sand-bordered 
hell, where the mirage flickers day long above 
the Bitter Lakes, move, if you will only wait, most 
of the men and women you have known in this 
life. Dick established himself in quarters more 
riotous than respectable. He spent his evenings 
on the quay, and boarded many ships, and saw very 
many friends, — gracious Englishwomen with whom 
he had talked not too wisely in the veranda of 
Shepheard’s Hotel, hurrying war correspondents, 
skippers of the contract troop-ships employed in 
the campaign, army officers by the score, and others 
of less reputable trades. He had choice of all the 
races of the East and West for studies, and the 
advantage of seeing his subjects under the influence 
of strong excitement, at the gaming-tables, saloons, 
dancing-hells, and elsewhere. For recreation there 
was the straight vista of the Canal, the blazing 
sands, the procession of shipping, and the white 


Ill 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


37 


hospitals where the English soldiers lay. He strove 
to set down in black and white and colour all 
that Providence sent him, and when that supply 
was ended sought about for fresh material. It was 
a fascinating employment, but it ran away with his 
money, and he had drawn in advance the hundred 
and twenty pounds to which he was entitled yearly. 
‘Now I shall have to work and starve!’ thought 
he, and was addressing himself to this new fate 
when a mysterious telegram arrived from Torpenhow 
in England, which said, ‘Come back, quick: you 
have caught on. Come.’ 

A large smile overspread his face. ‘ So soon ! 
that’s good hearing,’ said he to himself. ‘ There 
will be an orgy to-night. I’ll stand or fall by my 
luck. Faith, it’s time it came ! ’ He deposited 
half of his funds in the hands of his well-known 
friends Monsieur and Madame Binat, and ordered 
himself a Zanzibar dance of the finest. Monsieur 
Binat was shaking with drink, but Madame smiled 
sympathetically — 

‘ Monsieur needs a chair, of course, and of course 
Monsieur will sketch: Monsieur amuses himself 
strangely.’ 

Binat raised a blue-white face from a cot in the 
inner room. ‘I understand,’ he quavered. ‘We 
all know Monsieur. Monsieur is an artist, as I 


38 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


have been.’ Dick nodded. ‘In the end,’ said 
Binat, with gravity, ‘Monsieur will descend alive 
into hell, as I have descended.’ And he laughed. 

‘ You must come to the dance, too,’ said Dick ; 
‘ I shall want you.’ 

‘For my face? I knew it would be so. For 
my face? My God! and for my degradation so 
tremendous ! I will not. Take him away. He is 
a devil. Or at least do thou, Celeste, demand of 
him more.’ The excellent Binat began to kick and 
scream. 

‘ All things are for sale in Port Said,’ said 
Madame. ‘If my husband comes it will be so 
much more. Eh, ’ow you call — ’alf a sovereign.’ 

The money was paid, and the mad dance was 
held at night in a walled courtyard at the back of 
Madame Binat’s house. The lady herself, in faded 
mauve silk always about to slide from her yellow 
shoulders, played the piano, and to the tin-pot 
music of a Western waltz the naked Zanzibari girls 
danced furiously by the light of kerosene lamps. 
Binat sat upon a chair and stared with eyes that 
saw nothing, till the whirl of the dance and the 
clang of the rattling piano stole into the drink that 
took the place of blood in his veins, and his face 
glistened. Dick took him by the chin brutally 
and turned that face to the light. Madame Binat 


hi THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 39 

looked over her shoulder and smiled with many 
teeth. Dick leaned against the wall and sketched 
for an hour, till the kerosene lamps began to smell, 
and the girls threw themselves panting on the 
hard-beaten ground. Then he shut his book with 
a snap and moved away, Binat plucking feebly at 
his elbow. 4 Show me,’ he whimpered. 4 1 too was 
once an artist, even I ! ’ Dick showed him the 
rough sketch. 4 Am I that? ’lie screamed. 4 Will 
you take that away with you and show all the 
world that it is I, — Binat? ’ He moaned and wept. 

4 Monsieur has paid for all,’ said Madame. 4 To 
the pleasure of seeing Monsieur again.’ 

The courtyard gate shut, and Dick hurried up 
the sandy street to the nearest gambling-hell, where 
he was well known. 4 If the luck holds, it’s an 
omen; if I lose, I must stay here.’ He placed his 
money picturesquely about the board, hardly daring 
to look at what he did. The luck held. Three 
turns of the wheel left him richer by twenty 
pounds, and he went down to the shipping to make 
friends with the captain of a decayed cargo-steamer, 
who landed him in London with fewer pounds in 
his pocket than he cared to think about. 

A thin gray fog hung over the city, and the 
streets were very cold ; for summer was in England. 


40 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 It’s a cheerful wilderness, and it hasn’t the 
knack of altering much,’ Dick thought, as he 
tramped from the Docks westward. ‘Now, what 
must I do ? ’ 

The packed houses gave no answer. Dick 
looked down the long lightless streets and at the 
appalling rush of traffic. 4 Oh, you rabbit-hutches ! ’ 
said he, addressing a row of highly respectable 
semi-detached residences. 4 Do you know what 
you’ve got to do later on? You have to supply 
me with men-servants and maid-servants,’ — here 
he smacked his lips, — 4 and the peculiar treasure of 
kings. Meantime I’ll get clothes and boots, and 
presently I will return and trample on you.’ He 
stepped forward energetically ; he saw that one of 
his shoes was burst at the side. As he stooped to 
make investigations, a man jostled him into the 
gutter. 4 All right,’ he said. 4 That’s another nick 
in the score. I’ll jostle you later on.’ 

Good clothes and boots are not cheap, and Dick 
left his last shop with the certainty that he would 
be respectably arrayed for a time, but with only 
fifty shillings in his pocket. He returned to streets 
by the Docks, and lodged himself in one room, 
where the sheets on the bed were almost audibly 
marked in case of theft, and where nobody seemed 
to go to bed at all. When his clothes arrived he 


Ill 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


41 


sought the Central Southern Syndicate for Torpen- 
how’s address, and got it, with the intimation that 
there was still some money owing to him. 

‘How much?’ said Dick, as one who habitually 
dealt in millions. 

‘Between thirty and forty pounds. If it would 
be any convenience to you, of course we could let 
you have it at once ; but we usually settle accounts 
monthly.’ 

‘ If I show that I want anything now, I’m lost,’ 
he said to himself. ‘All I need I’ll take later on.’ 
Then, aloud, ‘ It’s hardly worth while ; and I’m 
going into the country for a month, too. Wait till 
I come back, and I’ll see about it.’ 

‘ But we trust, Mr. Heldar, that you do not 
intend to sever your connection with us?’ 

Dick’s business in life was the study of faces, 
and he watched the speaker keenly. ‘ That man 
means something,’ he said. ‘ I’ll do no business 
till I’ve seen Torpenhow. There’s a big deal 
coming.’ So he departed, making no promises, to 
his one little room by the Docks. And that day 
was the seventh of the month, and that month, he 
reckoned with awful distinctness, had thirty-one 
days in it ! 

It is not easy for a man of catholic tastes and 
healthy appetites to exist for twenty-four days on 


42 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


fifty shillings. Nor is it cheering to begin the 
experiment alone in all the loneliness of London. 
Dick paid seven shillings a week for his lodging, 
which left him rather less than a shilling a day for 
food and drink. Naturally, his first purchase was 
of the materials of his craft ; he had been without 
them too long. Half a day’s investigation and 
comparison brought him to the conclusion that 
sausages and mashed potatoes, twopence a plate, 
were the best food. Now, sausages once or twice 
a week for breakfast are not unpleasant. As lunch, 
even, with mashed potatoes, they become monotonous. 
As dinner they are impertinent. At the end of 
three days Dick loathed sausages, and, going forth, 
pawned his watch to revel on sheep’s head, which 
is not as cheap as it looks, owing to the bones and 
the gravy. Then he returned to sausages and 
mashed potatoes. Then he confined himself entirely 
to mashed potatoes for a day, and was unhappy 
because of pain in his inside. Then he pawned his 
waistcoat and his tie, and thought regretfully of 
money thrown away in times past. There are few 
things more edifying unto Art than the actual 
belly-pinch of hunger, and Dick in his few walks 
abroad — he did not care for exercise ; it raised 
desires that could not be satisfied — found himself 
dividing mankind into two classes, — those who 


m THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 43 

looked as if they might give him something to eat, 
and those who looked otherwise. ‘I never knew 
what I had to learn about the human face before,’ 
he thought ; and, as a reward for his humility, 
Providence caused a cab-driver at a sausage-shop 
where Dick fed that night to leave half eaten a 
great chunk of bread. Dick took it, — would have 
fought all the world for its possession, — and it 
cheered him. 

The month dragged through at last, and, nearly 
prancing with impatience, he went to draw his 
money. Then he hastened to Torpenhow’s address 
and smelt the smell of cooking meats all along the 
corridors of the chambers. Torpenhow was on the 
top floor, and Dick burst into his room, to be re- 
ceived with a hug which nearly cracked his ribs, 
as Torpenhow dragged him to the light and spoke 
of twenty different things in the same breath. 

4 But you’re looking tucked up,’ he concluded. 

4 Got anything to eat ? ’ said Dick, his eye roaming 
round the room. 

4 1 shall be having breakfast in a minute. What 
do you say to sausages ? ’ 

4 No, anything but sausages! Torp, I’ve been 
starving on that accursed horse-flesh for thirty days 
and thirty nights.’ 

4 Now, what lunacy has been your latest ? ’ 


44 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Dick spoke of the last few weeks with unbridled 
speech. Then he opened his coat; there was no 
waistcoat below. ‘I ran it fine, awfully fine, but 
I’ve just scraped through.’ 

4 You haven’t much sense, but you’ve got a back- 
bone, anyhow. Eat, and talk afterwards.’ Dick 
fell upon eggs and bacon and gorged till he could 
gorge no more. Torpenhow handed him a filled 
pipe, and he smoked as men smoke who for three 
weeks have been deprived of good tobacco. 

4 Ouf ! ’ said he. 4 That’s heavenly ! Well ? ’ 

4 Why in the world didn’t you come to me ? ’ 

4 Couldn’t ; I owe you too much already, old 
man. Besides I had a sort of superstition that 
this temporary starvation — that’s what it was, and 
it hurt — would bring me more luck later. It’s 
over and done with now, and none of the syndicate 
know how hard up I was. Fire away. What’s 
the exact state of affairs as regards myself ? ’ 

‘You had my wire? You’ve caught on here. 
People like your work immensely. I don’t know 
why, but they do. They say you have a fresh 
touch and a new way of drawing things. And, 
because they’re chiefly home-bred English, they say 
you have insight. You’re wanted by half a dozen 
papers ; you’re wanted to illustrate books.’ 

Dick grunted scornfully. 


Ill 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


45 


4 You’re wanted to work up your smaller sketches 
and sell them to the dealers. They seem to think 
the money sunk in you is a good investment. Good 
Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of 
the public ? ’ 

4 They’re a remarkably sensible people.’ 

4 They are subject to fits, if that’s what you 
mean; and you happen to be the object of the 
latest fit among those who are interested in what 
they call Art. Just now you’re a fashion, a phe- 
nomenon, or whatever you please. I appeared to 
be the only person who knew anything about you 
here, and I have been showing the most useful 
men a few of the sketches you gave me from time 
to time. Those coming after your work on the 
Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done 
your business. You’re in luck.’ 

4 Huh ! call it luck ! Do call it luck, when a 
man has been kicking about the world like a dog, 
waiting for it to come ! I’ll luck ’em later on. I 
want a place to work in first.’ 

‘Come here,’ said Torpenhow, crossing the land- 
ing. ‘This place is a big box room really, but it 
will do for you. There’s your skylight, or your 
north light, or whatever window you call it, and 
plenty of room to thrash about in, and a bedroom 
beyond. What more do you need?’ 


46 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Good enough,’ said Dick, looking round the 
large room that took up a third of a top story in 
the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A 
pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and 
showed the much dirt of the place. Three steps 
led from the door to the landing, and three more to 
Torpenhow’s room. The well of the staircase dis- 
appeared into darkness, pricked by tiny gas-jets, and 
there were sounds of men talking and doors slam- 
ming seven flights below, in the warm gloom. 

4 Do they give you a free hand here ? ’ said Dick, 
cautiously. He was Ishmael enough to know the 
value of liberty. 

4 Anything you like : latch-keys and license un- 
limited. We are permanent tenants for the most 
part here. ’Tisn’t a place I would recommend 
for a Young Men’s Christian Association, but it 
will serve. I took these rooms for you when I 
wired.’ 

4 You’re a great deal too kind, old man.’ 

4 You didn’t suppose you were going away from 
me, did you ? ’ Torpenhow put his hand on Dick’s 
shoulder, and the two walked up and down the 
room, henceforward to be called the studio, in 
sweet and silent communion. They heard rapping 
at Torpenhow’s door. 4 That’s some ruffian come 
up for a drink,’ said Torpenhow ; and he raised his 


Ill 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


47 


voice cheerily. There entered no one more ruffianly 
than a portly middle-aged gentleman in a satin- 
faced frockcoat. His lips were parted and pale, 
and there were deep pouches under the eyes. 

‘Weak heart,’ said Dick to himself, and, as he 
shook hands, ‘ very weak heart. His pulse is shak- 
ing his fingers.’ 

The man introduced himself as the head of the 
Central Southern Syndicate and ‘one of the most 
ardent admirers of your work, Mr. Heldar. I as- 
sure you, in the name of the syndicate, that we 
are immensely indebted to you; and I trust, Mr. 
Heldar, you won’t forget that we were largely 
instrumental in bringing you before the public.’ 
He panted because of the seven flights of stairs. 

Dick glanced at Torpenhow, whose left eyelid lay 
for a moment dead on his cheek. 

‘ I shan’t forget,’ said Dick, every instinct of 
defence roused in him. ‘You’ve paid me so well 
that I couldn’t, you know. By the way, when I 
am settled in this place I should like to send and 
get my sketches. There must be nearly a hundred 
and fifty of them with you.’ 

‘That is er — is what I came to speak about. I 
fear we can’t allow it exactly, Mr. Heldar. In the 
absence of any specified agreement, the sketches are 
our property, of course.’ 


48 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Do you mean to say that you are going to keep 
them ? ’ 

4 Yes ; and we hope to have your help, on your 
own terms, Mr. Heldar, to assist us in arranging a 
little exhibition, which, backed by our name and the 
influence we naturally command among the press, 
should be of material service to you. Sketches 
such as yours ’ 

4 Belong to me. You engaged me by wire, you 
paid me the lowest rates you dared. You can’t 
mean to keep them ! Good God alive, man, they’re 
all I’ve got in the world ! ’ 

Torpenhow watched Dick’s face and whistled. 

Dick walked up and down, thinking. He saw 
the whole of his little stock in trade, the first 
weapon of his equipment, annexed at the outset of 
his campaign by an elderly gentleman whose name 
Dick had not caught aright, who said that he repre- 
sented a syndicate, which was a thing for which 
Dick had not the least reverence. The injustice of 
the proceedings did not much move him ; he had 
seen the strong hand prevail too often in other 
places to be squeamish over the moral aspects of 
right and wrong. But he ardently desired the 
blood of the gentleman in the frockcoat, and when 
he spoke again it was with a strained sweetness that 
Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife. 


Ill 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


49 


‘Forgive me, sir, but you have no — no younger 
man who can arrange this business with me ? ’ 

‘ I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a 
third party to ’ 

‘You will in a minute. Be good enough to give 
back my sketches.’ 

The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at 
Torpenhow, who was leaning against the wall. He 
was not used to ex-employees who ordered him to 
be good enough to do things. 

‘ Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal, said Tor- 
penhow, critically ; ‘ but I’m afraid, I am very much 
afraid, you’ve struck the wrong man. Be careful, 
Dick : remember, this isn’t the Soudan.’ 

‘ Considering what services the syndicate have 
done you in putting your name before the 
world ’ 

This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded 
Dick of certain vagrant years lived out in loneliness 
and strife and unsatisfied desires. The memory 
did not contrast well with the prosperous gentle- 
man who proposed to enjoy the fruit of those 
years. 

‘ I don’t know quite what to do with you,’ began 
Dick, meditatively. ‘ Of course you’re a thief, and 
you ought to be half killed, but in your case you’d 
probably die. I don’t want you dead on this floor, 


50 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


and, besides, it’s unlucky just as one’s moving in. 
Don’t hit, sir; you’ll only excite yourself.’ He 
put one hand on the man’s forearm and ran the 
other down the plump body beneath the coat. ‘ My 
goodness!’ said he to Torpenhow, 4 and this gray 
oaf dares to be a thief ! I have seen an Esneh 
camel-driver have the black hide taken off his body 
in strips for stealing half a pound of wet dates, 
and he was as tough as whipcord. This thing’s 
soft all over — like a woman. ’ 

There are few things more poignantly humili- 
ating than being handled by a man who does not 
intend to strike. The head of the syndicate began 
to breathe heavily. Dick walked round him, paw- 
ing him, as a cat paws a soft hearth-rug. Then 
he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches 
underneath the eyes, and shook his head. 4 You 
were going to steal my things, — mine, mine, mine ! 

— you, who don’t know when you may die. Write 
a note to your office, — you say you’re the head of it, 

— and order them to give Torpenhow my sketches, 

— every one of them. Wait a minute : your hand’s 
shaking. Now ! ’ He thrust a pocket-book before 
him. The note was written. Torpenhow took it 
and departed without a word, while Dick walked 
round and round the spellbound captive, giving him 
such advice as he conceived best for the welfare of 


Ill 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


51 


liis soul. When Torpenhow returned with a 
gigantic portfolio, he heard Dick say, almost sooth- 
ingly, ‘Now, I hope this will be a lesson to you; 
and if you worry me when I have settled down to 
work with any nonsense about actions for assault, 
believe me, I’ll catch you and manhandle you, and 
you’ll die. You haven’t very long to live, anyhow. 
Go ! Imshi, VootsaJc , — get out ! ’ The man departed, 
staggering and dazed. Dick drew a long breath : 
‘ Phew ! what a lawless lot these people are ! The 
first thing a poor orphan meets is gang robbery, 
organised burglary ! Think of the hideous blackness 
of that man’s mind ! Are my sketches all right, 
Torp?’ 

‘Yes; one hundred and forty-seven of them. 
Well, I must say, Dick, you’ve begun well.’ 

‘ He was interfering with me. It only meant a 
few pounds to him, but it was everything to me. 
I don’t think he’ll bring an action. I gave him 
some medical advice gratis about the state of his 
body. It was cheap at the little flurry it cost him. 
Now, let’s look at my things.’ 

Two minutes later Dick had thrown himself 
down on the floor and was deep in the portfolio, 
chuckling lovingly as he turned the drawings 
over and thought of the price at which they had 
been bought. 


52 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. Ill 


The afternoon was well advanced when Torpen- 
how came to the door and «aw Dick dancing a wild 
saraband under the skylight. 

‘I builded better than I knew, Torp,’ he said, 
without stopping the dance. ‘ They’re good ! 
They’re damned good ! They’ll go like flame ! I 
shall have an exhibition of them on my own brazen 
hook. And that man would have cheated me out 
of it ’ Do you know that I’m sorry now that I 
didn’t actually hit him ? ’ 

‘Go out,’ said Torpenhow, — ‘go out and pray to 
be delivered from the sin of arrogance, which you 
never will be. Bring your things up from what- 
ever place you’re staying in, and we’ll try to make 
this barn a little more shipshape.’ 

‘And then — oh, then,’ said Dick, still capering, 
‘ we will spoil the Egyptians ! ’ 


CHAPTER IV 


The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, 

When the smoke of the cooking hung gray : 

He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, 

And he looked to his strength for his prey. 

But the moon swept the smoke- wreaths away. 

And he turned from his meal in the villager’s close, 

And he bayed to the moon as she rose. — In Seonee. 

‘ Well, and how does success taste?’ said Torpen- 
how, some three months later. He had just returned 
to chambers after a holiday in the country. 

4 Good,’ said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before 
the easel in the studio. 4 1 want more, — heaps 
more. The lean years have passed, and I approve of 
these fat ones.’ 

4 Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work.’ 

Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with 
a small fox-terrier asleep on his chest, while Dick 
was preparing a canvas. A dais, a background, and 
a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the 
place. They rose from a wreck of oddments that 

53 


54 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


began with felt-covered water-bottles, belts, and 
regimental badges, and ended with a small bale of 
second-hand uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. 
The mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that a 
military model had just gone away. The watery 
autumn sunlight was failing, and shadows sat in the 
corners of the studio. 

6 Yes,’ said Dick, deliberately, 4 I like the power ; 
I like the fun ; I like the fuss ; and above all I 
like the money. I almost like the people who 
make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But 
they’re a queer gang, — an amazingly queer gang ! ’ 

4 They have been good enough to you, at any 
rate. That tin-pot exhibition of your sketches 
must have paid. Did you see that the papers called 
it the 44 Wild Work Show ” ? ’ 

4 Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I 
wanted to ; and, on my word, I believe it was 
because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone 
artist. I should have got better prices if I had 
worked my things on wool or scratched them on 
camel-bone instead of using mere black and white 
and colour. Yerily, they are a queer gang, these 
people. Limited isn’t the word to describe ’em. I 
met a fellow the other day who told me that it was 
impossible that shadows on white sand should be 
blue, — ultramarine, — as they are. I found out, 


IV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


55 


later, that that man had been as far as Brighton 
beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him. 
He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me 
to go to school to learn technique. I wonder what 
old Kami would have said to that.’ 

‘When were you under Kami, man of extra- 
ordinary beginnings?’ 

‘ I studied with him for two years in Paris. He 
taught by personal magnetism. All he ever said 
was, “ Continuez , mes enfants ,” and you had to make 
the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, 
and he knew something about colour. Kami used to 
dream colour ; I swear he could never have seen the 
genuine article ; but he evolved it ; and it was good.’ 

‘Recollect some of those views in the Soudan?’ 
said Torpenhow, with a provoking drawl. 

Dick squirmed in his place. ‘ Don’t ! It makes 
me want to get out there again. What colour that 
was ! Opal and umber and amber and claret and 
brick-red and sulphur — cockatoo-crest sulphur — 
against brown, with a nigger-black rock sticking up 
in the middle of it all, and a decorative frieze of 
camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise 
sky.’. He began to walk up and down. ‘And yet, 
you know, if you try to give these people the thing 
as God gave it, keyed down to their comprehension 
and according to the powers He has given you ’ 


56 


TttE LIGHT THAT TAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Modest man ! Go on.’ 

‘Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven’t 
even been to Algiers will tell you, first, that your 
notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it isn’t Art.’ 

‘This comes of my leaving town for a month. 
Dickie, you’ve been promenading among the toy- 
shops and hearing people talk.’ 

‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Dick, penitently. ‘You 
weren’t here, and it was lonely these long evenings. 
A man can’t work for ever.’ 

‘ A man might have gone to a pub, and got 
decently drunk.’ 

‘I wish I had; but I forgathered with some 
men of sorts. They said they were artists, and I 
knew some of them could draw, — but they wouldn’t 
draw. They gave me tea, — tea at five in the after- 
noon ! — and talked about Art and the state of their 
souls. As if their souls mattered. I’ve heard more 
about Art and seen less of her in the last six months 
than in the whole of my life. Do you remember 
Cassavetti, who worked for some continental syn- 
dicate, out with the desert column ? He was a 
regular Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took 
the field in full fig, with his water-bottle, lanyard, 
revolver, writing-case, housewife, gig-lamps, and the 
Lord knows what all. He use to fiddle about with 
’em and show us how they worked ; but he never 


IV the light that failed 57 

seemed to do much except fudge his reports from 
the Nilghai. See?’ 

4 Dear old Nilghai ! He’s in town, fatter than 
ever. He ought to be up here this evening. I see 
the comparison perfectly. You should have kept 
clear of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; 
and I hope it will unsettle your mind.’ 

‘It won’t. It has taught me what Art — holy 
sacred Art — means.’ 

‘You’ve learnt something while I’ve been away. 
What is Art?’ 

‘Give ’em what they know, and when you’ve 
done it once do it again.’ Dick dragged forward a 
canvas laid face to the wall. ‘Here’s a sample of 
real Art. It’s going to be a facsimile reproduction 
for a weekly. I called it “His Last Shot.” It’s 
worked up from the little water-colour I made outside 
El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful 
rifleman, up here with drink ; I drored him, and I 
redrored him, and I tredrored him, and I made him 
a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with his 
helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear 
of death in his eye, and the blood oozing out of a 
cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn’t pretty, but he 
was all soldier and very much man.’ 

‘ Once more, modest child ! ’ 

Dick laughed. ‘Well, it’s only to you I’m 


58 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


talking. I did him just as well as I knew how, 
making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then 
the art-manager of that abandoned paper said that 
his subscribers wouldn’t like it. It was brutal and 
coarse and violent, — man being naturally gentle 
when he’s fighting for his life. They wanted some- 
thing more restful, with a little more colour. I could 
have said a good deal, but you might as well talk 
to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my “Last 
Shot ” back. Behold the result ! I put him into a 
lovely red coat without a speck on it. That is Art. 
I polished his boots, — observe the high light on the 
toe. That is Art. I cleaned his rifle, — rifles are 
always clean on service* — because that is Art. I 
pipeclayed his helmet, — pipeclay is always used 
on active service, and is indispensable to Art. I 
shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and gave him 
an air of fatted peace. Result, military tailor’s 
pattern-plate. Price, thank Heaven, twice as much 
as for the first sketch, which was moderately 
decent.’ 

‘ And do you suppose you’re going to give that 
thing out as your work?’ 

‘Why not? I did it. Alone I did it, in the 
interests of sacred, home-bred Art and Dickenson's 
Weekly .’ 

Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. Then 


IV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


59 


came the verdict, delivered from rolling clouds : 
4 If you were only a mass of blathering vanity, 
Dick, I wouldn’t mind, — I’d let you go to the deuce 
on your own mahl-stick ; but when I consider what 
you are to me, and when I find that to vanity you 
add the twopenny-halfpenny pique of a twelve-year- 
old girl, then I bestir myself in your behalf. Thus ! ’ 

The canvas ripped as Torpenhow’s booted foot 
shot through it, and the terrier jumped down, think- 
ing rats were about. 

‘If you have any bad language to use, use it. 
You have not. I continue. You are an idiot, 
because no man born of woman is strong enough 
to take liberties with his public, even though they 
be — which they ain’t — all you say they are.’ 

‘But they don’t know any better. What can 
you expect from creatures born and bred in this 
light ? ’ Dick pointed to the yellow fog. ‘ If they 
want furniture-polish, let them have furniture-polish, 
so long as they pay for it. They are only men and 
women. You talk as though they were gods.’ 

.‘ That sounds very fine, but it has nothing to do 
with the case. They are the people you have to 
work for, whether you like it or not. They are 
your masters. Don’t be deceived, Dickie, you aren’t 
strong enough to trifle with them, — or with yourself, 
which is more important. Moreover, — Come back, 


60 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Binkie : that red daub isn’t going anywhere, — unless 
you take precious good care, you will fall under the 
damnation of the check-book, and that’s worse than 
death. You will get drunk — you’re half drunk 
already — on easily acquired money. F or that money 
and your own infernal vanity you are 'willing to 
deliberately turn out bad work. You’ll do quite 
enough bad work without knowing it. And, Dickie, 
as I love you and as I know you love me, I am not 
going to let you cut off your nose to spite your face 
for all the gold in England. That’s settled. Now 
swear.’ 

‘Don’t know,’ said Dick. ‘I’ve been trying to 
make myself angry, but I can’t, you’re so abominably 
reasonable. There will be a row on Dickenson's 
Weekly , I fancy.’ 

‘Why the Dickenson do you want to work on a 
weekly paper? It’s slow bleeding of power.’ 

‘It brings in the very desirable dollars,’ said 
Dick, his hands in his pockets. 

Torpenhow watched him with large contempt. 

‘ Why, I thought it was a man ! ’ said he. ‘ It’s a 
child.’ 

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Dick, wheeling quickly. 

‘ You’ve no notion what the certainty of cash 
means to a man who has always wanted it badly. 
Nothing will pay me for some of my life’s joys; 


IV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 61 

on that Chinese pig-boat, for instance, when we ate 
bread and jam for every meal, because Ho- Wang 
wouldn’t allow us anything better, and it all tasted 
of pig, — Chinese pig. I’ve worked for this, I’ve 
sweated and I’ve starved for this, line on line and 
month after month. And now I’ve got it I am 
going to make the most of it while it lasts. Let 
them pay — they’ve no knowledge.’ 

4 What does Your Majesty please to want? 
You can’t smoke more than you do ; you won’t 
drink ; you’re a gross feeder ; and you dress in the 
dark, by the look of you. You wouldn’t keep a 
horse the other day when I suggested, because, you 
said, it might fall lame, and whenever you cross 
the street you take a hansom. Even you are not 
foolish enough to suppose that theatres and all the 
live things you can buy thereabouts mean Life. 
What earthly need have you for money?’ 

4 It’s there, bless its golden heart,’ said Dick. 
4 It’s there all the time. Providence has sent me 
nuts while I have teeth to crack ’em with. I 
haven’t yet found the nut I wish to crack, but I’m 
keeping my teeth filed. Perhaps some day you and 
I will go for a walk round the wide earth.’ 

4 With no work to do, nobody to worry us, and 
nobody to compete with? You would be unfit to 
speak to in a week. Besides, I shouldn’t go. I 


62 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


don’t care to profit by the price of a man’s soul, — 
for that’s what it would mean. Dick, it’s no use 
arguing. You’re a fool.’ 

‘Don’t see it. When I was on that Chinese 
pig-boat, our captain got credit for saying about 
twenty-five thousand very seasick little pigs, when 
our old tramp of a steamer fell foul of a timber- 
junk. Now, taking those pigs as a parallel ’ 

4 Oh, confound your parallels ! Whenever I try 
to improve your soul, you always drag in some 
anecdote from your very shady past. Pigs aren’t 
the British public ; and Self-respect is self-respect 
the world over. Go out for a walk and try to 
catch some self-respect. And, I say, if the Nil- 
ghai comes up this evening can I show him your 
diggings ? ’ 

‘Surely.’ And Dick departed, to take counsel 
with himself in the rapidly gathering London fog. 

Half an hour after he had left, the Nilghai 
laboured up the staircase. He was the chiefest, as 
he was the hugest, of the war correspondents, and 
his experiences dated from the birth of the needle- 
gun. Saving only his ally, Keneu the Great War 
Eagle, there was no man higher in the craft than 
he, and he always opened his conversation with the 
news that there would be trouble in the Balkans in 
the spring. Torpenhow laughed as he entered. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


63 


IV 


‘Never mind the trouble in the Balkans. Those 
little states are always screeching. You’ve heard 
about Dick’s luck? ’ 

‘Yes; he has been called up to notoriety, hasn’t 
he? I hope you keep him properly humble. He 
wants suppressing from time to time.’ 

‘ He does. He’s beginning to take liberties with 
what he thinks is his reputation.’ 

‘Already! By Jove, he has cheek! I don’t 
know about his reputation, but he’ll come a crop- 
per if he tries that sort of thing.’ 

‘So I told him. I don’t think he believes it.’ 

‘ They never do when they first start off. What’s 
that wreck on the ground there ? ’ 

‘ Specimen of his latest impertinence.’ Torpenhow 
thrust the torn edges of the canvas together and 
showed the well-groomed picture to the Nilghai, 
who looked at it for a moment and whistled. 

‘ It’s a chromo,’ said he, — ‘a chromo-litholeo- 
margarine fake ! What possessed him to do it ? 
And yet how thoroughly he has caught the note 
that catches a public who think with their boots 
and read with their elbows ! The cold-blooded in- 
solence of the work almost saves it ; but he mustn’t 
go on with this. Hasn’t he been praised and cock- 
ered up too much ? You know these people here 
have no sense of proportion. They’ll call him a 


64 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


second Detaille and a third-hand Meissonier while 
his fashion lasts. It’s windy diet for a colt.’ 

‘I don’t think it affects Dick much. You might 
as well call a young wolf a lion and expect him to 
take the compliment in exchange for a shin-bone. 
Dick’s soul is in the bank. He’s working for cash.’ 

‘Now he has thrown up war work, I suppose he 
doesn’t see that the obligations of the service are 
just the same, only the proprietors are changed.’ 

‘How should he know? He thinks *' he is his 
own master.’ 

‘ Does he ? I could undeceive him for his good, 
if there’s any virtue in print. He wants the whip- 
lash. ’ 

‘ Lay it on with science, then. I’d flay him my- 
self, but I like him too much.’ 

‘I’ve no scruples. He had the audacity to try 
to cut me out with a woman at Cairo once. I 
forgot that, but I remember now.’ 

‘ Did he cut you out ? ’ 

‘You’ll see when I have dealt with him. But, 
after all, what’s the good? Leave him alone and 
he’ll come home, if he has any stuff in him, drag- 
ging or wagging his tail behind him. There’s 
more in a week of life than in a lively weekly. 
None the less I’ll slate him. I’ll slate him pon- 
derously in the Cataclysm .’ 


IV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


65 


‘ Good luck to you ; but I fancy nothing short 
of a crowbar would make Dick wince. His soul 
seems to have been fired before we came across him. 
He’s intensely suspicious and utterly lawless.’ 

‘Matter of temper,’ said the Nilghai. ‘It’s the 
same with horses. Some you wallop and they 
work, some you wallop and they jib, and some 
you wallop and they go out for a walk with their 
hands in their pockets.’ 

‘That’s exactly what Dick has done,’ said Tor- 
penhow. ‘Wait till he comes back. In the mean- 
time, you can begin your slating here. I’ll show 
you some of his last and worst work in his studio.’ 

Dick had instinctively sought running water for 
a comfort to his mood of mind. He was leaning 
over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of 
the Thames through the arches of Westminster 
Bridge. He began by thinking of Torpenhow’s 
advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the study 
of the faces flocking past. Some had death written 
on their features, and Dick marvelled . that they 
could laugh. Others, clumsy and coarse-built for 
the most part, were alight with love; others were 
merely drawn and lined with work ; but there was 
something, Dick knew, to be made out of them all. 
The poor at least should suffer that he might learn, 
and the rich should pay for the output of his learn- 


66 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


ing. Thus his credit in the world and his cash 
balance at the bank would be increased. So much 
the better for him. He had suffered. Now he 
would take toll of the ills of others. 

The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the 
sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on the water. Dick 
watched the spot till he heard the voice of the tide 
between the piers die down like the wash of the 
sea at low tide. A girl hard pressed by her lover 
shouted shamelessly, 4 Ah, get away, you beast ! ’ 
and a shift of the same wind that had opened the 
fog drove across Dick’s face the black smoke of 
a river-steamer at her berth below the wall. He 
was blinded for the moment, then spun round and 
found himself face to face with — Maisie. 

There was no mistaking. The years had turned 
the child to a woman, but they had not altered the 
dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the firmly 
modelled mouth and chin; and, that all should be 
as it was of old, she wore a closely fitting gray 
dress. 

Since the human soul is finite and not in the 
least under its own command, Dick, advancing, said, 
4 Halloo ! ’ after the manner of schoolboys, and 
Maisie answered, 4 Oh, Dick, is that you?’ Then, 
against his will, and before the brain newly released 
from considerations of the cash balance had time to 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


67 


IV 

dictate to the nerves, every pulse of Dick’s body 
throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his 
mouth. The fog shut down again, and Maisie’s 
face was pearl-white through it. No word was 
spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and the 
two paced the Embankment together, keeping the 
step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to 
the mud-flats. Then Dick, a little hoarsely — 

6 What has happened to Amomma ? ’ 

‘He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. 
He was always greedy. Isn’t it funny?’ 

4 Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma ? ’ 

‘Ye — es. No. This. Where have you come 

from ? ’ 

‘ Over there.’ He pointed eastward through the 
fog. ‘ And you ? ’ 

‘Oh, I’m in the north, — the black north, across 
all the Park. I am very busy.’ 

‘ What do you do ? ’ 

‘I paint a great deal. That’s all I have to do.’ 

‘ Why, what’s happened ? You had three hundred 
a year.’ 

‘ I have that still. I am painting ; that’s all.’ 

‘ Are you alone, then ? ’ 

‘There’s a girl living with me. Don’t walk so 
fast, Dick ; you’re out of step.’ 

4 Then you noticed it too ? ’ 


68 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Of course I did. You’re always out of step.’ 

‘So I am. I’m sorry. You went on with the 
painting ? ’ 

‘Of course. I said I should. I was at the 
Slade, then at Merton’s in St. John’s Wood, the big 
studio, then I pepper-potted, — I mean I went to the 
National, — and now I’m working under Kami.’ 

‘ But Kami is in Paris surely? ’ 

‘No; he has his teaching studio at Vitry-sur- 
Marne. I work with him in the summer, and I live 
in London in the winter. I’m a householder.’ 

‘ Do you sell much ? ’ 

‘ Now and again, but not often. There is my ’bus. 
I must take it or lose half an hour. Good-bye, 
Dick.’ 

‘Good-bye, Maisie. Won’t you tell me where 
you live? I must see you again; and perhaps I 
could help you. I — I paint a little myself.’ 

‘ I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there is 
no working light. I walk from the Marble Arch 
down and back again; that is my little excursion. 
But of course I shall see you again.’ She stepped 
into the omnibus and was swallowed up by the 

fog-’ 

‘Well — I — am — damned ! ’ exclaimed Dick, and 
returned to the chambers. 

Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting 


IV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


69 


on the steps to the studio door, repeating the phrase 
with an awful gravity. 

‘You’ll be more damned when I’m done with 
you,’ said the Nilghai, upheaving his bulk from 
behind Torpenhow’s shoulder and waving a sheaf of 
half-dry manuscript. ‘ Dick, it is of common report 
that you are suffering from swelled head.’ 

‘Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the 
Balkans and all the little Balkans? One side of 
your face is out of drawing, as usual.’ 

‘Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite 
you in print. Torpenhow refuses from false delicacy. 
I’ve been overhauling the pot-boilers in your studio. 
They are simply disgraceful.’ 

‘ Oho ! that’s it, is it ? If you think you can 
slate me, you’re wrong. You can only describe, 
and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, 
as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be 
swift. I’m going to bed.’ 

‘ H’m ! h’m ! h’m ! The first part only deals with 
your pictures. Here’s the peroration: “For work 
done without conviction, for power wasted on trivi- 
alities, for labour expended with levity for the 
deliberate purpose of winning the easy applause of 
a fashion-driven public 

‘ That’s “ His Last Shot,” second edition. Go on.’ 

‘ “public, there remains but one end, — the 


70 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


oblivion that is preceded by toleration and ceno- 
taphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar 
has yet to prove himself out of danger.”’ 

4 Wow — wow — wow — wow — wow ! ’ said Dick, pro- 
fanely. ‘It’s a clumsy ending and vile journalese, 
but it’s quite true. And yet,’ — he sprang to his 
feet and snatched at the manuscript, — 4 you scarred, 
deboshed, battered old gladiator ! you’re sent out 
when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, 
British public’s bestial thirst for blood. They have 
no arenas now, but they must have special corre- 
spondents. You’re a fat gladiator who comes up 
through a trap-door and talks of what he’s seen. 
You stand on precisely the same level as an 
energetic bishop, an affable actress, a devastating 
cyclone, or — mine own sweet self. And you pre- 
sume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it 
were worth while I’d caricature you in four papers ! ’ 

The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this. 

4 As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small 
— so ! ’ The manuscript fluttered in slips down the 
dark well of the staircase. 4 Go home, Nilghai,’ 
said Dick ; 4 go home to your lonely little bed, and 
leave me in peace. I am about to turn in till 
to-morrow.’ 

4 Why, it isn’t seven yet ! ’ said Torpenhow, with 
amazement. 


IV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


71 


‘ It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,’ 
said Dick, backing to the studio door. ‘I go to 
grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan’t want any 
dinner.’ 

The door shut and was locked. 

4 What can you do with a man like that ? ’ said 
the Nilghai. 

‘ Leave him alone. He’s as mad as a hatter.’ 

At eleven there was a kicking on the studio door. 
‘Is the Nilghai with you still?’ said a voice from 
within. ‘Then tell him he might have condensed 
the whole of his lumbering nonsense into an 
epigram : “ Only the free are bond, and only the 
bond are free.” Tell him he’s an idiot, Torp, and 
tell him I’m another.’ 

‘ All right. Come out and have supper. You’re 
smoking on an empty stomach.’ 

There was no answer. 


CHAPTER V 


* I have a thousand men,’ said he, 

‘ To wait upon my will, 

And towers nine upon the Tyne, 

And three upon the Till.’ 

‘ And what care I for your men,’ said she, 

‘ Or towers from Tyne to Till, 

Sith you must go with me,’ she said, 

‘ To wait upon my will ? ’ 

Sir Hoggie and the Fairies. 

Next morning Torpenhow found Dick sunk in 
deepest repose of tobacco. 

4 W ell, madman, liow d’you feel ? ’ 

4 1 don’t know. I’m trying to find out.’ 

4 You had much better do some work.’ 

4 Maybe ; but I’m in no hurry. I’ve made a 
discovery. Torp, there’s too much Ego in my 
Cosmos.’ 

4 Not really! Is this revelation due to my 
lectures, or the Nilghai’s?’ 

4 It came to me suddenly, all on my own account. 
Much too much Ego ; and now I’m going to work.’ 
72 


CHAP, y 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


73 


He turned over a few half-finished sketches, 
drummed on a new canvas, cleaned three brushes, 
set Binkie to bite the toes of the l ay figure, rattled 
through his collection of arms and accoutrements, 
and then went out abruptly, declaring that he had 
done enough for the day. 

‘ This is positively indecent,’ said Torpenhow, 
‘ and the first time that Dick has ever broken up a 
light morning. Perhaps he has found out that he 
has a soul, or an artistic temperament, or something 
equally valuable. That comes of leaving him alone 
for a month. Perhaps he has been going out of 
evenings. I must look to this.’ He rang for the 
bald-headed old housekeeper, whom nothing could 
astonish or annoy. 

‘ Beeton, did Mr. Heldar dine out at all while I 
was out of town ? ’ 

4 Never laid ’is dress-clothes out once, sir, all the 
time. Mostly ’e dined in; but ’e brought some 
most remarkable fancy young gentlemen up ’ere 
after theatres once or twice. Remarkable fancy 
they was. You gentlemen on the top floor does 
very much as you likes, but it do seem to me, sir, 
droppin’ a walkin’-stick down five flights o’ stairs 
an’ then goin’ down four abreast to pick it up again 
at half -past two in the mornin’, singin’ “ Bring back 
the whiskey, Willie darlin’,” — not once or twice, but 


74 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


scores o’ times, — isn’t charity to the other tenants. 
What I say is, “Do as yon would be done by.” 
That’s my motto.’ 

‘ Of course ! of course ! I’m afraid the top floor 
isn’t the quietest in the house.’ 

‘ I make no complaints, sir. I have spoke to 
Mr. Heldar friendly, an’ he laughed, an’ did me a 
picture of the missis that is as good as a coloured 
print. It ’asn’t the ’igh shine of a photograph, but 
what I say is, “ Never look a gift-horse in the mouth.” 
Mr. Heldar’s dress-clothes ’aven’t been on him for 
weeks.’ 

‘Then it’s all right,’ said Torpenhow to himself. 

‘ Orgies are healthy, and Dick has a head of his 
own, but when it comes to women making eyes I’m 
not so certain, — Binkie, never you be a man, little 
dorglums. They’re contrary brutes, and they do 
things without any reason.’ 

Dick had turned northward across the Park, but 
he was walking in the spirit on the mud-flats with 
Maisie. He laughed aloud as he remembered the 
day when he had decked Amomma’s horns with the 
ham-frills, and Maisie, white with rage, had cuffed 
him. How long those four years seemed in review, 
and how closely Maisie was connected with every hour 
of them ! Storm across the sea, and Maisie in a gray 
dress on the beach, sweeping her drenched hair out 


V 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


75 


of her eyes and laughing at the homeward race of 
the fishing-smacks; hot sunshine on the mud-flats, 
and Maisie sniffing scornfully, with her chin in the 
air; Maisie flying before the wind that threshed 
the foreshore and drove the sand like small shot 
about her ears ; Maisie, very composed and inde- 
pendent, telling lies to Mrs. Jennett while Dick 
supported her with coarser perjuries ; Maisie pick- 
ing her way delicately from stone to stone, a pistol 
in her hand and her teeth firm-set; and Maisie in 
a gray dress sitting on the grass between the mouth 
of a cannon and a nodding yellow sea-poppy. The 
pictures passed before him one by one, and the last 
stayed the longest. Dick was perfectly happy with 
a quiet peace that was as new to his mind as it 
was foreign to his experience. It never occurred 
to him that there might be other calls upon his 
time than loafing across the Park in the forenoon. 

‘There’s a good working light now,’ he said, 
watching his shadow placidly. ‘Some poor devil 
ought to be grateful for this. And there’s Maisie.’ 

She was walking towards him from the Marble 
Arch, and he saw that no mannerism of her gait had 
been changed. It was good to find her still Maisie, 
and, so to speak, his next-door neighbour. No 
greeting passed between them, because there had 
been none in the old days. 


76 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘What are you doing out of your studio at this 
hour ? ’ said Dick, as one who was entitled to ask. 

‘ Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a chin 
and scraped it out. Then I left it in a little heap 
of paint-chips and came away.’ 

‘ I know what palette-knifing means. What was 
the piccy?’ 

‘ A fancy head that wouldn’t come right, — horrid 
thing ! ’ 

‘I don’t like working over scraped paint when 
I’m doing flesh. The grain comes up woolly as the 
paint dries.’ 

‘Not if you scrape properly.’ Maisie waved her 
hand to illustrate her methods. There was a dab 
of paint on the white cuff. Dick laughed. 

‘ You’re as untidy as ever.’ 

‘ That comes well from you. Look at your own cuff.’ 

‘ By Jove, yes ! It’s worse than yours. I don’t 
think we’ve much altered in anything. Let’s see, 
though.’ He looked at Maisie critically. The pale 
blue haze of an autumn day crept between the tree- 
trunks of the Park and made a background for the 
gray dress, the black velvet toque above the black 
hair, and the resolute profile. 

‘No, there’s nothing changed. How good it is! 
D’you remember when I fastened your hair into the 
snap of a hand-bag ? ’ 


v THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 77 

Maisie nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes, and 
turned her full face to Dick. 

‘Wait a minute,’ said he. 4 That mouth is down 
at the corners a little. Who’s been worrying you, 
Maisie ? ’ 

4 No one but myself. I never seem to get on 
with my work, and yet I try hard enough, and 
Kami says ’ 

4 44 Oontinuez , mesdemoiselles. Continuez toujours, 
mes ewfants .” Kami is depressing. I beg your 
pardon.’ 

4 Yes, that’s what he says. He told me last sum- 
mer that I was doing better and he’d let me exhibit 
this year.’ 

4 Not in this place, surely ? ’ 

4 Of course not. The Salon.’ 

4 You fly high.’ 

4 I’ve been beating my wings long enough. Where 
do you exhibit, Dick ? ’ 

4 1 don’t exhibit. I sell.’ 

4 What is your line, then ? ’ 

4 Haven’t you heard ? ’ Dick’s eyes opened. Was 
this thing possible ? He cast about for some means 
of conviction. They were not far from the Marble 
Arch. 4 Come up Oxford Street a little and I’ll show 
you.’ 

A small knot of people stood round a print-shop 


78 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


that Dick knew well. ‘ Some reproduction of my 
work inside,’ he said, with suppressed triumph. 
Never before had success tasted so sweet upon the 
tongue. ‘You see the sort of things I paint. 
D’you like it?’ 

Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a field- 
battery going into action under fire. Two artillery- 
men stood behind her in the crowd. 

‘They’ve chucked the off lead-’orse,’ said one to 
the other. ‘ ’E’s tore up awful, but they’re rnakin’ 
good time with the others. That lead-driver drives 
better nor you, Tom. See ’ow cunnin’ ’e’s nursin’ 
’is ’orse.’ 

‘ Number Three’ll be off the limber, next jolt,’ 
was the answer. 

‘No, ’e won’t. See ’ow ’is foot’s braced against 
the iron? ’E’s all right.’ 

Dick watched Maisie’s face and swelled with joy 
— fine, rank, vulgar triumph. She was more inter- 
ested in the little crowd than in the picture. That 
was something that she could understand. 

‘ And I wanted it so ! Oh, I did want it so ! ’ 
she said at last, under her breath. 

‘ Me, — all me ! ’ said Dick, placidly. ‘ Look at 
their faces. It hits ’em. They don’t know what 
makes their eyes and mouths open; but I know. 
And I know my work’s right.’ 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


79 


4 Yes. I see. Oh, what a thing to have come to one ! ’ 
4 Come to one, indeed ! I had to go out and look 
for it. What do you think ? ’ 

4 1 call it success. Tell me how you got it.’ 

They returned to the Park, and Dick delivered 
himself of the saga of his own doings, with all the 
arrogance of a young man speaking to a woman. 
From the beginning he told the tale, the I — I — I’s 
flashing through the records as telegraph-poles fly 
past the traveller. Maisie listened and nodded her 
head. The histories of strife and privation did not 
move her a hair’s-breadth. At the end of each 
canto he would conclude, 4 And that gave me some 
notion of handling colour,’ or light, or whatever it 
might be that he had set out to pursue and under- 
stand. He led her breathless across half the world, 
speaking as he had never spoken in his life before. 
And in the flood-tide of his exaltation there came 
upon him a great desire to pick up this maiden who 
nodded her head and said, 4 1 understand. Go on,’ 
— to pick her up and carry her away with him, 
because she was Maisie, and because she understood, 
and because she was his right, and a woman to be 
desired above all women. 

Then he checked himself abruptly. 4 And so I 
took all I wanted,’ he said, 4 and I had to fight for 
it. Now you tell.’ 


80 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Maisie’s tale was almost as gray as her dress. 
It covered years of patient toil backed by savage 
pride that would not be broken though dealers 
laughed, and fogs delayed work, and Kami was un- 
kind and even sarcastic, and girls in other studios 
were painfully polite. It had a few bright spots, in 
pictures accepted at provincial exhibitions, but it 
wound up with the oft repeated wail, 4 And so you 
see, Dick, I had no success, though I worked so hard.’ 

Then pity filled Dick. Even thus had Maisie 
spoken when she could not hit the breakwater, half 
an hour before she had kissed him. And that had 
happened yesterday. 

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you something, 
if you’ll believe it.’ The words were shaping them- 
selves of their own accord. ‘ The whole thing, lock, 
stock, and barrel, isn’t worth one big yellow sea- 
poppy below Fort Keeling.’ 

Maisie flushed a little. ‘ It’s all very well for 
you to talk, but you’ve had the success and I 
haven’t.’ 

‘ Let me talk, then. I know you’ll understand. 
Maisie, dear, it sounds a bit absurd, but those ten 
years never existed, and I’ve come back again. It 
really is just the same. Can’t you see? You’re 
alone now and I’m alone. What’s the use of 
worrying? Come to me instead, darling.’ 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


81 


Maisie poked the gravel with her parasol. They 
were sitting on a bench. ‘I understand,’ she said 
slowly. 4 But I’ve got my work to do, and I must 
do it.’ 

‘ Do it with me, then, dear. I won’t interrupt.’ 

‘No, I couldn’t. It’s my work, — mine, — mine, 
— mine ! I’ve been alone all my life in myself, and 
I’m not going to belong to anybody except my- 
self. I remember things as well as you do, but 
that doesn’t count. We were babies then, and we 
didn’t know what was before us. Dick, don’t be 
selfish. I think I see my way to a little success 
next year. Don’t take it away from me.’ 

‘I beg your pardon, darling. It’s my fault for 
speaking stupidly. I can’t expect you to throw up 
all your life just because I’m back. I’ll go to my 
own place and wait a little.’ 

‘ But, Dick, I don’t want you to — go — out of — 
my life, now you’ve just come back.’ 

‘I’m at your orders; forgive me.’ Dick de- 
voured the troubled little face with his eyes. There 
was triumph in them, because he could not conceive 
that Maisie should refuse sooner or later to love him, 
since he loved her. 

‘ It’s wrong of me,’ said Maisie, more slowly than 
before ; ‘ it’s wrong and selfish ; but, oh, I’ve been so 
lonely! No, you misunderstand. Now I’ve seen 

G 


82 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


you again, — it’s absurd, but I want to keep you in 
my life.’ 

‘Naturally. We belong.’ 

‘We don’t; but you always understood me, and 
there is so much in my work that you could help 
me in. You know things and the ways of doing 
things. You must.’ 

‘I do, I fancy, or else I don’t know myself. 
Then you won’t care to lose sight of me alto- 
gether, and — you want me to help you in your 
work ? ’ 

‘Yes; but remember, Dick, nothing will ever 
come of it. That’s why I feel so selfish. Can’t 
things stay as they are? I do want your help.’ 

‘ You shall have it. But let’s consider. I must 
see your pics first, and overhaul your sketches, and 
find out about your tendencies. You should see 
what the papers say about my tendencies ! Then 
I’ll give you good advice, and you shall paint 
according. Isn’t that it, Maisie?’ 

Again there was triumph in Dick’s eye. 

‘ It’s too good of you, — much too good. Because 
you are consoling yourself with what will never 
happen, and I know that, and yet I want to keep 
you. Don’t blame me later, please.’ 

‘ I’m going into the matter with my eyes open. 
Moreover the Queen can do no wrong. It isn’t 


v THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 83 

your selfishness that impresses me. It’s yonr au- 
dacity in proposing to make use of me.’ 

‘Pooh! You’re only Dick, — and a print-shop.’ 

‘Very good: that’s all I am. But, Maisie, 
you believe, don’t you, that I love you? I don’t 
want you to have any false notions about brothers 
and sisters.’ 

Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped 
her eyes. 

4 It’s absurd, but — I believe. I wish I could 
send you away before you get angry with me. But 
— but the girl that lives with me is red-haired, and 
an impressionist, and all our notions clash.’ 

‘So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three 
months from to-day we shall be laughing at this 
together.’ 

Maisie shook her head mournfully. ‘I knew 
you wouldn’t understand, and it will only hurt you 
more when you find out. Look at my face, Dick, 
and tell me what you see.’ 

They stood up and faced each other for a mo- 
ment. The fog was gathering, and it stifled the 
roar of the traffic of London beyond the railings. 
Dick brought all his painfully acquired knowledge 
of faces to bear on the eyes, mouth, and chin 
underneath the black velvet toque. 

‘ It’s the same Maisie, and it’s the same me,’ he 


84 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


said. ‘ We’ve both nice little wills of our own, and 
one or other of us has to be broken. Now about 
the future. I must come and see your pictures 
some day, — I suppose when the red-haired girl is 
on the premises.’ 

4 Sundays are my best times. You must come 
on Sundays. There are such heaps of things I 
want to talk about and ask your advice about. 
Now I must get back to work.’ 

‘ Try to find out before next Sunday what I am,’ 
said Dick. ‘ Don’t take my word for anything I’ve 
told you. Good-bye, darling, and bless you.’ 

Maisie stole away like a little gray mouse. 
Dick watched her till she was out of sight, but he 
did not hear her say to herself, very soberly, ‘I’m 
a wretch, — a horrid, selfish wretch. But it’s Dick, 
and Dick will understand.’ 

No one has yet explained what actually happens 
when an irresistible force meets the immovable post, 
though many have thought deeply, even as Dick 
thought. He tried to assure himself that Maisie 
would be led in a few weeks by his mere presence 
and discourse to a better way of thinking. Then 
he remembered much too distinctly her face and 
all that was written on it. 

‘If I know anything of heads,’ he said, ‘there’s 
everything in that face but love. I shall have to 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


85 


put that in myself ; and that chin and mouth won’t 
be won for nothing. But she’s right. She knows 
what she wants, and she’s going to get it. What 
insolence ! Me ! Of all the people in the wide 
world, to use me ! But then she’s Maisie. There’s 
no getting over that fact ; and it’s good to see her 
again. This business must have been simmering 
at the back of my head for years. . . . She’ll use 
me as I used Binat at Port Said. She’s quite right. 
It will hurt a little. I shall have to see her every 
Sunday, — like a young man courting a housemaid. 
She’s sure to come round ; and yet — that mouth 
isn’t a yielding mouth. I shall be wanting to kiss 
her all the time, and I shall have to look at her 
pictures, — I don’t even know what sort of work 
she does yet, — and I shall have to talk about Art, 
— Woman’s Art! Therefore, particularly and per- 
petually, damn all varieties of Art. It did me a 
good turn once, and now it’s in my way. I’ll go 
home and do some Art.’ 

Half-way to the studio, Dick was smitten with a 
terrible thought. The figure of a solitary woman in 
the fog suggested it. 

4 She’s all alone in London, with a red-haired 
impressionist girl, who probably has the digestion of 
an ostrich. Most red-haired people have. Maisie’s 
a bilious little body. They’ll eat like lone women, 


86 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


— meals at all hours, and tea with all meals. I 
remember how the students in Paris used to pig 
along. She may fall ill at any minute, and I shan’t 
be able to help. Whew ! this is ten times worse 
than owning a wife.’ 

Torpenhow entered the studio at dusk, and 
looked at Dick with eyes full of the austere love 
that springs up between men who have tugged at 
the same oar together and are yoked by custom 
and use and the intimacies of toil. This is a good 
love, and, since it allows, and even encourages, 
strife, recrimination, and brutal sincerity, does not 
die, but grows, and is proof against any absence 
and evil conduct. 

Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow the 
filled pipe of council. He thought of Maisie and 
her possible needs. It was a new thing to think of 
anybody but Torpenhow, who could think for him- 
self. Here at last was an outlet for that cash 
balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically with 
jewelry, — a thick gold necklace round that little 
neck, bracelets upon the rounded arms, and rings of 
price upon her hands, — the cool, temperate, ringless 
hands that he had taken between his own. It was 
an absurd thought, for Maisie would not even allow 
him to put one ring on one finger, and she would 
laugh at golden trappings. It would be better to 


V 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


87 


sit with her quietly in the dusk, his arm around her 
neck and her face on his shoulder, as befitted 
husband and wife. Torpenhow’s boots creaked that 
night, and his strong voice jarred. Dick’s brows 
contracted and he murmured an evil word because 
he had taken all his success as a right and part pay- 
ment for past discomfort, and now he was checked 
in his stride by a woman who admitted all the 
success and did not instantly care for him. 

4 1 say, old man,’ said Torpenhow, who had made 
one or two vain attempts at conversation, 4 1 haven’t 
put your back up by anything I’ve said lately, 
have I ? ’ 

4 You ! No. How could you ? ’ 

4 Liver out of order ? ’ 

‘The truly healthy man doesn’t know he has a 
liver. I’m only a bit worried about things in 
general. I suppose it’s my soul.’ 

‘The truly healthy man doesn’t know he has a 
soul. What business have you with luxuries of 
that kind ? ’ 

4 It came of itself. Who’s the man that says 
that we’re all islands shouting lies to each other 
across seas of misunderstanding ? ’ 

‘He’s right, whoever he is, — except about the 
misunderstanding. I don’t think we could mis- 
understand each other.’ 


88 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. V 


The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling in 
clouds. Then Torpenhow, insinuatingly — 

‘ Dick, is it a woman ? ’ 

‘Be hanged if it’s anything remotely resembling 
a woman ; and if you begin to talk like that, I’ll 
hire a red-brick studio with white paint trimmings, 
and begonias and petunias and blue Hungarias to 
play among three-and-sixpenny pot-palms, and I’ll 
mount all my pics in aniline-dye plush plasters, 
and I’ll invite every woman who maunders over 
what her guide-books tell her is Art, and you shall 
receive ’em, Torp, — in a snuff -brown, velvet coat 
with yellow trousers and an orange tie. You’ll 
like that ? ’ 

‘ Too thin, Dick. A better man than you once 
denied with cursing and swearing. You’ve overdone 
it, just as he did. It’s no business of mine, of 
course, but it’s comforting to think that somewhere 
under the stars there’s saving up for you a tremen- 
dous thrashing. Whether it’ll come from heaven 
or earth, I don’t know, but it’s bound to come and 
break you up a little. You want hammering.’ 

Dick shivered. ‘ All right,’ said he. ‘ When this 
island is disintegrated, it will call for you.’ 

‘I shall come round the corner and help to dis- 
integrate it some more. We’re talking nonsense. 
Come along to a theatre.’ 


CHAPTER VI 


* And you may lead a thousand men, 

Nor ever draw the rein, 

But ere ye lead the Faery Queen 
’Twill burst your heart in twain.’ 

He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, 

The bridle from his hand, 

And he is bound by hand and foot 
To the Queen o’ Faery-land. 

Sir Hoggie and the Fairies. 

Some weeks later, on a very foggy Sunday, Dick was 
returning across the Park to his studio. 4 This,’ he 
said, 4 is evidently the thrashing that Torp meant. 
It hurts more than I expected ; but the Queen can 
do no wrong ; and she certainly has some notion of 
drawing.’ 

He had just finished a Sunday visit to Maisie, 

— always under the green eyes of the red-haired 
impressionist girl, whom he learned to hate at sight, 

— and was tingling with a keen sense of shame. 
Sunday after Sunday, putting on his best clothes, he 

89 


90 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


had walked over to the untidy house north of the 
Park, first to see Maisie’s pictures, and then to 
criticise and advise upon them as he realised that 
they were productions on which advice would not 
be wasted. Sunday after Sunday, and his love grew 
with each visit, he had been compelled to cram his 
heart back from between his lips when it prompted 
him to kiss Maisie several times and very much 
indeed. Sunday after Sunday, the head above 
the heart had warned him that Maisie was not yet 
attainable, and that it would be better to talk as 
connectedly as possible upon the mysteries of the 
craft that was all in all to her. Therefore it was 
his fate to endure weekly torture in the studio built 
out over the clammy back garden of a frail stuffy 
little villa where nothing was ever in its right place 
and nobody ever called, — to endure and to watch 
Maisie moving to and fro with the teacups. He 
abhorred tea, but, since it gave him a little longer 
time in her presence, he drank it devoutly, and the 
red-haired girl sat in an untidy heap and eyed him 
without speaking. She was always watching him. 
Once, and only once, when she had left the studio, 
Maisie showed him an album that held a few poor 
cuttings from provincial papers, — the briefest of 
hurried notes on some of her pictures sent to out- 
lying exhibitions. Dick stooped and kissed the 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


91 


paint -smudged thumb on the open page. ‘Oh, 
my love, my love,’ he muttered, ‘do you value 
these things ? Chuck ’em into the waste-paper 
basket ! ’ 

‘Not till I get something better,’ said Maisie, 
shutting the book. 

Then Dick, moved by no respect for his public 
and a very deep regard for the maiden, did deliber- 
ately propose, in order to secure more of these 
coveted cuttings, that he should paint a picture 
which Maisie should sign. 

‘ That’s childish,’ said Maisie, ‘ and I didn’t think 
it of you. It must be my work. Mine, — mine, — 
mine ! ’ 

‘Go and design decorative medallions for rich 
brewers’ houses. You are thoroughly good at that.’ 
Dick was sick and savage. 

‘ Better things than medallions, Dick,’ was the an- 
swer, in tones that recalled a gray-eyed atom’s fear- 
less speech to Mrs. Jennett. Dick would have abased 
himself utterly, but that the other girl trailed in. 

Next Sunday he laid at Maisie’s feet small gifts 
of pencils that could almost draw of themselves and 
colours in whose permanence he believed, and he was 
ostentatiously attentive to the work in hand. It 
demanded, among other things, an exposition of the 
faith that was in him. Torpenhow’s hair would 


92 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


have stood on end had he heard the fluency with 
which Dick preached his own gospel of Art. 

A month before, Dick would have been equally 
astonished ; but it was Maisie’s will and pleasure, and 
lio dragged his words together to make plain to her 
comprehension all that had been hidden to himself of 
the whys and wherefores of work. There is not the 
least difficulty in doing a thing if you only know how 
to do it ; the trouble is to explain your method. 

‘I could put this right if I had a brush in my 
hand,’ said Dick, despairingly, over the modelling 
of a chin that Maisie complained would not ‘look 
flesh,’ — it was the same chin that she had scraped 
out with the palette-knife, — ‘but I find it almost 
impossible to teach you. There’s a queer grim 
Dutch touch about your painting that I like ; but 
I’ve a notion that you’re weak in drawing. You 
foreshorten as though you never used the model, and 
you’ve caught Kami’s pasty way of dealing with flesh 
in shadow. Then, again, though you don’t know it 
yourself, you shirk hard work. Suppose you spend 
some of your time on line alone. Line doesn’t allow 
of shirking. Oils do, and three square inches of 
flashy, tricky stuff in the corner of a pic sometimes 
carry a bad thing off, — as I know. That’s immoral. 
Do line- work for a little while, and then I can tell 
more about your powers, as old Kami used to say.’ 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


93 


Maisie protested : she did not care for the pure line. 

‘ I know,’ said Dick. ‘ You want to do your 
fancy heads with a bunch of flowers at the base of 
the neck to hide bad modelling.’ The red-haired 
girl laughed a little. ‘You want to do landscapes 
with cattle knee-deep in grass to hide bad drawing. 
You want to do a great deal more than you can 
do. You have sense of colour, but you want form. 
Colour’s a gift, — put it aside and think no more 
about it, — but form you can be drilled into. Now, 
all your fancy heads — and some of them are very 
good — will keep you exactly where you are. With 
line you must go forward or backward, and it will 
show up all your weaknesses.’ 

‘ But other people ’ began Maisie. 

‘ You mustn’t mind what other people do. If their 
souls were your soul, it would be different. You 
stand and fall by your own work, remember, and it’s 
waste of time to think of any one else in this battle.’ 

Dick paused, and the longing that had been so 
resolutely put away came back into his eyes. He 
looked at Maisie, and the look asked as plainly as 
words, Was it not time to leave all this barren 
wilderness of canvas and counsel and join hands 
with Life and Love? 

Maisie assented to the new programme of 
schooling so adorably that Dick could hardly 


94 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


restrain himself from picking her up then and 
there and carrying her off to the nearest registrar’s 
office. It was the implicit obedience to the spoken 
word and the blank indifference to the unspoken 
desire that baffled and buffeted his soul. He held 
authority in that house, — authority limited, indeed, 
to one-half of one afternoon in seven, but very real 
while it lasted. Maisie had learned to appeal to 
him on many subjects, from the proper packing of 
pictures to the condition of a smoky chimney. The 
red-haired girl never consulted him about anything. 
On the other hand, she accepted his appearances 
without protest, and watched him always. He 
discovered that the meals of the establishment were 
irregular and fragmentary. They depended chiefly 
on tea, pickles, and biscuit, as he had suspected 
from the beginning. The girls were supposed to 
market week and week about, but they lived, with 
the help of a charwoman, as casually as the young 
ravens. Maisie spent most of her income on 
models, and the other girl revelled in apparatus as 
refined as her work was rough. Armed with 
knowledge, dear-bought from the Docks, Dick 
warned Maisie that the end of semi-starvation 
meant the crippling of power to work, which was 
considerably worse than death. Maisie took the 
warning, and gave more thought to what she ate 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


95 


and drank. When his trouble returned upon him, 
as it generally did in the long winter twilights, the 
remembrance of that little act of domestic authority 
and his coercion with a hearth-brush of the smoky 
drawing-room chimney stung Dick like a whip-lash. 

He conceived that this memory would be the 
extreme of his sufferings, till one Sunday, the red- 
haired girl announced that she would make a study 
of Dick’s head, and that he would be good enough 
to sit still, and — quite as an afterthought — look at 
Maisie. He sat, because he could not well refuse, 
and for the space of half an hour he reflected on all 
the people in the past whom he had laid open for 
the purposes of his own craft. He remembered 
Binat most distinctly, — that Binat who had once 
been an artist and talked about degradation. 

It was the merest monochrome roughing in of a 
head, but it presented the dumb waiting, the long- 
ing, and, above all, the hopeless enslavement of the 
man, in a spirit of bitter mockery. 

‘ I’ll buy it,’ said Dick, promptly, ‘ at your own 
price.’ 

‘ My price is too high, but I dare say you’ll be as 

grateful if ’ The wet sketch fluttered from 

the girl’s hand and fell into the ashes of the studio 
stove. When she picked it up it was hopelessly 
smudged. 


96 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Oh, it’s all spoiled ! ’ said Maisie. 4 And I never 
saw it. Was it like? ’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Dick under his breath to the 
red-haired girl, and he removed himself swiftly. 

4 How that man hates me ! ’ said the girl. 4 And 
how he loves you, Maisie ! ’ 

4 What nonsense ! I know Dick’s very fond of 
me, but he has his work to do, and I have mine.’ 

4 Yes, he is fond of you, and I think he knows 
there is something in impressionism, after all. 
Maisie, can’t you see ? ’ 

‘See? See what?’ 

‘Nothing; only, I know that if I could get any 
man to look at me as that man looks at you, I’d — I 
don’t know what I’d do. But he hates me. Oh, 
how he hates me ! ’ 

She was not altogether correct. Dick’s hatred 
was tempered with gratitude for a few moments, 
and then he forgot the girl entirely. Only the 
sense of shame remained, and he was nursing it 
across the Park in the fog. ‘ There’ll be an 
explosion one of these days,’ he said wrathfully. 
‘ But it isn’t Maisie’s fault ; she’s right, quite right, 
as far as she knows, and I can’t blame her. This 
business has been going on for three months nearly. 
Three months ! — and it cost me ten years’ knocking 
about to get at the notion, the merest raw notion, of 


... 



WE WERE FUNNY LITTLE CHILDREN 






VI THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 97 

my work. That’s true; but then I didn’t have 
pins, drawing-pins, and palette-knives, stuck into me 
every Sunday. Oh, my little darling, if ever I 
break you, somebody will have a very bad time of 
it. No, she won’t. I’d be as big a fool about her 
as I am now. I’ll poison that red-haired girl on my 
wedding-day, — she’s unwholesome, — and now I’ll 
pass on these present bad times to Torp.’ 

Torpenhow had been moved to lecture Dick 
more than once lately on the sin of levity, and 
Dick had listened and replied not a word. In the 
weeks between the first few Sundays of his dis- 
cipline he had flung himself savagely into his 
work, resolved that Maisie should at least know 
the full stretch of his powers. Then he had taught 
Maisie that she must not pay the least attention to 
any work outside her own, and Maisie had obeyed 
him all too well. She took his counsels, but was 
not interested in his pictures. 

‘Your things smell of tobacco and blood,’ she said 
once. ‘ Can’t you do anything except soldiers ? ’ 

‘I could do a head of you that would startle 
you,’ thought Dick, — this was before the red-haired 
girl had brought him under the guillotine, — but he 
only said, ‘ I am very sorry,’ and harrowed Torpen- 
how’s soul that evening with blasphemies against 
Art. Later, insensibly and to a large extent against 


98 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


his own will, he ceased to interest himself in his 
own work. For Maisie’s sake, and to soothe the 
self-respect that it seemed to him he lost each 
Sunday, he would not consciously turn out bad 
stuff, but, since Maisie did not care even for his 
best, it were better not to do anything at all save 
wait and mark time between Sunday and Sunday. 
Torpenhow was disgusted as the weeks went by 
fruitless, and then attacked him one Sunday 
evening when Dick felt utterly exhausted after 
three hours’ biting self-restraint in Maisie’s pres- 
ence. There was Language, and Torpenhow with- 
drew to consult the Nilghai, who had come in to 
talk continental politics. 

4 Bone-idle, is he ? Careless, and touched in the 
temper ? ’ said the Nilghai. 4 It isn’t worth worry- 
ing over. Dick is probably playing the fool with a 
woman.’ 

4 Isn’t that bad enough ? ’ 

4 No. She may throw him out of gear and 
knock his work to pieces for a while. She may 
even turn up here some day and make a scene on 
the staircase : one never knows. But until Dick 
speaks of his own accord you had better not touch 
him. He is no easy-tempered man to handle.’ 

4 No ; I wish he were. He is such an aggressive, 
cocksure, you-be-damned fellow.’ 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


99 


4 He’ll get that knocked out of him in time. He 
must learn that he can’t storm up and down the 
world with a box of moist tubes and a slick brush. 
You’re fond of him ? 5 

4 I’d take any punishment that’s in store for him 
if I could ; but the worst of it is, no man can save 
his brother.’ 

4 No, and the worser of it is, there is no discharge 
in this war. Dick must learn his lesson like the 
rest of us. Talking of war, there’ll be trouble in 
the Balkans in the spring.’ 

4 That trouble is long coming. I wonder if we 
could drag Dick out there when it comes off ? ’ 

Dick entered the room soon afterwards, and the 
question was put to him. ‘Not good enough,’ he 
said shortly. 4 I’m too comf’y where I am.’ 

4 Surely you aren’t taking all the stuff in the 
papers seriously?’ said the Nilghai. 4 Your vogue 
will be ended in less than six months, — the public 
will know your touch and go on to something new, 
— and where will you be then ? ’ 

‘Here, in England.’ 

4 When you might be doing decent work among us 
out there ? Nonsense ! I shall go, the Keneu will 
be there, Torp will be there, Cassavetti will be there, 
and the whole lot of us will be there, and we shall 
have as much as ever we can do, with unlimited 


100 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


fighting and the chance for you of seeing things that 
would make the reputation of three Verestchagins.’ 

4 Um ! ’ said Dick, pulling at his pipe. 

‘You prefer to stay here and imagine that all 
the world is gaping at your pictures? Just think 
how full an average man’s life is of his own pursuits 
and pleasures. When twenty thousand of him find 
time to look up between mouthfuls and grunt some- 
thing about something they aren’t the least inter- 
ested in, the net result is called fame, reputation, or 
notoriety, according to the taste and fancy of the 
speller my lord.’ 

4 1 know that as well as you do. Give me credit 
for a little gumption.’ 

4 Be hanged if I do ! ’ 

4 Be hanged, then ; you probably will be, — for a 
spy, by excited Turks. Heigh-ho ! I’m weary, 
dead weary, and virtue has gone out of me.’ Dick 
dropped into a chair, and was fast asleep in a minute. 

‘That’s a bad sign,’ said the Nilghai, in an 
undertone. 

Torpenhow picked the pipe from the waistcoat 
where it was beginning to burn, and put a pillow 
behind the head. 4 We can’t help; we can’t help,’ 
he said. 4 It’s a good ugly sort of old cocoanut, and 
I’m fond of it. There’s the scar of the wipe he got 
when he was cut over in the square.’ 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


101 


4 Shouldn’t wonder if that has made him a trifle 
mad.’ 

4 1 should. He’s a most businesslike madman.’ ' 

Then Dick began to snore furiously. 

4 Oh, here, no affection can stand this sort of 
thing. Wake up, Dick, and go and sleep somewhere 
else, if you intend to make a noise about it.’ 

4 When a cat has been out on the tiles all night,’ 
said the Nilghai, in his beard, 4 1 notice that she 
usually sleeps all day. This is natural history.’ 

Dick staggered away rubbing his eyes and 
yawning. In the night-watches he was overtaken 
with an idea, so simple and so luminous that he 
wondered he had never conceived it before. It was 
full of craft. He would seek Maisie on a week- 
day, — would suggest an excursion, and would take 
her by train to Fort Keeling, over the very ground 
that they two had trodden together ten years ago. 

4 As a general rule,’ he explained to his chin- 
lathered reflection in the morning, 4 it isn’t safe to 
cross an old trail twice. Things remind one of things, 
and a cold wind gets up, and you feel sad ; but this 
is an exception to every rule that ever was. I’ll 
go to Maisie at once.’ 

Fortunately, the red-haired girl was out shopping 
when he arrived, and Maisie in a paint-spattered 
blouse was warring with her canvas. She was not 


102 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


pleased to see him ; for week-day visits were a 
stretch of the bond ; and it needed all his courage 
to explain his errand. 

4 1 know you’ve been working too hard,’ he con- 
cluded, with an air of authority. ‘ If you do that, 
you’ll break down. You had much better come.’ 

‘Where?’ said Maisie, wearily. She had been 
standing before her easel too long, and was very 
tired. 

‘Anywhere you please. We’ll take a train to- 
morrow and see where it stops. We’ll have lunch 
somewhere, and I’ll bring you back in the evening.’ 

‘ If there’s a good working light to-morrow, I lose 
a day.’ Maisie balanced the heavy white chestnut 
palette irresolutely. 

Dick bit back an oath that was hurrying to his 
lips. He had not yet learned patience with the 
maiden to whom her work was all in all. 

‘You’ll lose ever so many more, dear, if you 
use every hour of working light. Overwork’s only 
murderous idleness. Don’t be unreasonable. I’ll 
call for you to-morrow after breakfast early.’ 

‘ But surely you are going to ask ’ 

‘No, I am not. I want you and nobody else. 
Besides, she hates me as much as I hate her. She 
won’t care to come. To-morrow, then ; and pray 
that we get sunshine.’ 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


103 


Dick went away delighted, and by consequence 
did no work whatever. He strangled a wild desire 
to order a special train, but bought a great gray 
kangaroo cloak lined with glossy black martin, and 
then retired into himself to consider things. 

4 I’m going out for the day to-morrow with Dick,’ 
said Maisie to the red-haired girl when the latter 
returned, tired, from marketing in the Edgware 
Road. 

4 He deserves it. I shall have the studio floor 
thoroughly scrubbed while you’re away. It’s very 
dirty.’ 

Maisie had enjoyed no sort of holiday for months 
and looked forward to the little excitement, but 
not without misgivings. 

‘There’s nobody nicer than Dick when he talks 
sensibly,’ she thought, 4 but I’m sure he’ll be silly 
and worry me, and I’m sure I can’t tell him any- 
1 mg he’d like to hear. If he’d only be sensible, I 
si >uld like him so much better.’ 

Dick’s eyes were full of joy when he made his 
pearance next morning and saw Maisie, gray- 
stered and black-velvet-hatted, standing in the 
llway. Palaces of marble, and not sordid 
» citation of grained wood, were surely the fittest 
background for such a divinity. The red-haired 
girl drew her into the studio for a moment and 


104 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


kissed her hurriedly. Maisie’s eyebrows climbed to 
the top of her forehead ; she was altogether unused 
to these demonstrations. ‘Mind my hat,’ she said, 
hurrying away, and ran down the steps to Dick 
waiting by the hansom. 

4 Are you quite warm enough ! Are you sure 
you wouldn’t like some more breakfast? Put this 
cloak over your knees.’ 

4 I’m quite comf’y, thanks. Where are we going, 
Dick ? Oh, do stop singing like that. People will 
think we’re mad.’ 

‘Let ’em think, — if the exertion doesn’t kill 
them. They don’t know who we are, and I’m sure 
I don’t care who they are. My faith, Maisie, you’re 
looking lovely ! ’ 

Maisie stared directly in front of her and did 
not reply. The wind of a keen clear winter morning 
had put colour into her cheeks. Overhead, the 
creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away 
one by one against a pale-blue sky, and the im- 
provident sparrows broke off from water-spout 
committees and cab-rank cabals to clamour of the 
coming of spring. 

4 It will be lovely weather in the country,’ said 
Dick. 

4 But where are we going? ’ 

4 Wait and see.’ 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


105 


They stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought 
tickets. For less than half the fraction of an instant 
it occurred to Maisie, comfortably settled by the 
waiting-room fire, that it was much more pleasant 
to send a man to the booking-office than to elbow 
one’s own way through the crowd. Dick put her 
into a Pullman, — solely on account of the warmth 
there ; and she regarded the extravagance with grave 
scandalised eyes as the train moved out into the 
country. 

‘ I wish I knew where we are going,’ she repeated 
for the twentieth time. The name of a well-remem- 
bered station flashed by, towards the end of the run, 
and Maisie was enlightened. 

4 Oh, Dick, you villain ! ’ 

4 Well, I thought you might like to see the place 
again. You haven’t been here since old times, have 
you?’ 

4 No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett again; 
and she was all that was ever there.’ 

4 Not quite. Look out a minute. There’s the 
windmill above the potato-fields ; they haven’t built 
villas there yet ; d’you remember when I shut you 
up in it?’ 

‘Yes. How she beat you for it! I never told 
it was you.’ 

4 She guessed. I jammed a stick under the door 


106 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


and told you that I was burying Amomma alive in 
the potatoes, and you believed me. You had a 
trusting nature in those days.’ 

They laughed and leaned to look out, identifying 
ancient landmarks with many reminiscences. Dick 
fixed his weather eye on the curve of Maisie’s cheek, 
very near his own, and watched the blood rise under 
the clear skin. He congratulated himself upon his 
cunning, and looked that the evening would bring 
him a great reward. 

When the train stopped they went out to look 
at an old town with new eyes. First, but from a 
distance, they regarded the house of Mrs. Jennett. 

‘Suppose she should come out now, what would 
you do?’ said Dick, with mock terror. 

‘I should make a face.’ 

6 Show, then,’ said Dick, dropping into the speech 
of childhood. 

Maisie made that face in the direction of the 
mean little villa, and Dick laughed. 

“‘This is disgraceful,”’ said Maisie, mimicking 
Mrs. Jennett’s tone. “‘Maisie, you run in at once, 
and learn the collect, gospel, and epistle for the 
next three Sundays. After all I’ve taught you, too, 
and three helps every Sunday at dinner ! Dick’s 
always leading you into mischief. If you aren’t a 
gentleman, Dick, you might at least * ” ’ 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


107 


The sentence ended abruptly. Maisie remembered 
when it had last been used. 

“‘Try to behave like one,”’ said Dick, promptly. 
‘ Quite right. Now we’ll get some lunch and go on 
to Fort Keeling, — unless you’d rather drive there?’ 

‘We must walk, out of respect to the place. 
How little changed it all is ! ’ 

They turned in the direction of the sea through 
unaltered streets, and the influence of old things lay 
upon them. Presently they passed a confectioner’s 
shop much considered in the days when their joint 
pocket-money amounted to a shilling a week. 

‘ Dick, have you any pennies ? ’ said Maisie, half 
to herself. 

‘Only three; and if you think you’re going to 
have two of ’em to buy peppermints with, you’re 
wrong. She says peppermints aren’t ladylike.’ 

Again they laughed, and again the colour came 
into Maisie’s cheeks as the blood boiled through 
Dick’s heart. After a large lunch they went down 
to the beach and to Fort Keeling across the waste, 
wind-bitten land that no builder had thought it 
worth his while to defile. The winter breeze came 
in from the sea and sang about their ears. 

‘ Maisie,’ said Dick, ‘ your nose is getting a crude 
Prussian blue at the tip. I’ll race you as far as you 
please for as much as you please.’ 


108 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


She looked round cautiously, and with a laugh 
set off, swiftly as the ulster allowed, till she was 
out of breath. 

1 We used to run miles,’ she panted. ‘ It’s absurd 
that we can’t run now. ’ 

‘ Old age, dear. This it is to get fat and sleek 
in town. When I wished to pull your hair you 
generally ran for three miles, shrieking at the top 
of your voice. I ought to know, because those 
shrieks were meant to call up Mrs. Jennett with a 
cane and ’ 

‘Dick, I never got you a beating on purpose in 
my life.’ 

‘No, of course you never did. Good heavens! 
look at the sea.’ 

‘ Why, it’s the same as ever ! ’ said Maisie. 

Torpenhow had gathered from Mr. Beeton that 
Dick, properly dressed and shaved, had left the 
house at half-past eight in the morning with a 
travelling-rug over his arm. The Nilghai rolled 
in at mid-day for chess and polite conversation. 

‘ It’s worse than anything I imagined,’ said 
Torpenhow. 

‘Oh, the everlasting Dick, I suppose ! You fuss 
over him like a hen with one chick. Let him run 
riot if he thinks it’ll amuse him. You can whip 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


109 


a young pup off feather, but you can’t whip a young 
man.’ 

‘ It isn’t a woman. It’s one woman ; and it’s 
a girl.’ 

4 Where’s your proof ? ’ 

4 He got up and went out at eight this morning, 
— got up in the middle of the night, by Jove ! a 
thing he never does except when he’s on service. 
Even then, remember, we had to kick him out of 
his blankets before the fight began at El-Maghrib. 
It’s disgusting.’ 

4 It looks odd ; but maybe he’s decided to buy a 
horse at last. He might get up for that, mightn’t 
he?’ 

4 Buy a blazing wheelbarrow ! He’d have told 
us if there was a horse in the wind. It’s a girl.’ 

‘Don’t be certain. Perhaps it’s only a married 
woman.’ 

4 Dick has some sense of humour, if you haven’t. 
Who gets up in the gray dawn to call on another 
man’s wife ? It’s a girl.’ 

4 Let it be a girl, then. She may teach him 
that there’s somebody else in the world besides 
himself.’ 

4 She’ll spoil his hand. She’ll waste his time, 
and she’ll marry him, and ruin his work for ever. 
He’ll be a respectable married man before we 


110 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


can stop him, and — he’ll never go on the long trail 
again.’ 

4 All quite possible, but the earth won’t spin the 
other way when it happens. . . . Ho ! ho ! I’d 
give something to see Dick 44 go wooing with the 
boys.” Don’t worry about it. These things be with 
Allah, cind we can only look on. Get the chessmen.’ 

The red-haired girl was lying down in her own 
room, staring at the ceiling. The footsteps of people 
on the pavement sounded, as they grew indistinct in 
the distance, like a many-times-repeated kiss that 
was all one long kiss. Her hands were by her 
side, and they opened and shut savagely from time 
to time. 

The charwoman in charge of the scrubbing of 
the studio knocked at her door : 4 Beg y’ pardon, 
miss, but in cleanin’ of a floor there’s two, not to 
say three, kind of soap, which is yaller, an’ mottled, 
an’ disinfectink. Now, jist before I took my pail 
into the passage I thought it would be pre’aps jest 
as well if I was to come up ’ere an’ ask you what 
sort of soap you was wishful that I should use on 
them boards. The yaller soap, miss ’ 

There was nothing in the speech to have caused 
the paroxysm of fury that drove the red-haired girl 
into the middle of the room, almost shouting — 


VI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


111 


4 Do you suppose I care what you use ? Any 
kind will do ! — ally kind ! ’ 

The woman fled, and the red-haired girl looked 
at her own reflection in the glass for an instant and 
covered her face with her hands. It was as though 
she had shouted some shameless secret aloud. 


CHAPTER VII 


Roses red and roses white 
Plucked I for my love’s delight. 

She would none of all my posies, — 

Bade me gather her blue roses. 

Half the world I wandered through, 

Seeking where such flowers grew ; 

Half the world unto my quest 
Answered but with laugh and jest. 

It may be beyond the grave 

She shall find what she would have. 

Mine was but an idle quest, — 

Roses white and red are best ! — Blue Boses. 

The sea had not changed. Its waters were low 
on the mud-banks, and the Marazion Bell-buoy 
clanked and swung in the tide-way. On the white 
beach-sand dried stumps of sea-poppy shivered and 
chattered. 

‘I don’t see the old breakwater,’ said Maisie, 
under her breath. 

‘Let’s be thankful that we have as much as we 
have. I don’t believe they’ve mounted a single 
112 


chap, vii THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 113 

new gun on the fort since we were here. Come 
and look.’ 

They came to the glacis of Fort Keeling, and 
sat down in a nook sheltered from the wind 
under the tarred throat of a forty -pounder cannon. 

4 Now, if Amomma were only here ! ’ said 
Maisie. 

For a long time both were silent. Then Dick 
took Maisie’s hand and called her by her name. 

She shook her head and looked out to sea. 

4 Maisie, darling, doesn’t it make any difference ? ’ 

4 No!’ between clenched teeth. 4 I’d — I’d tell 
you if it did ; but it doesn’t. Oh, Dick, please be 
sensible.’ 

4 Don’t you think that it ever will? ’ 

4 No, I’m sure it won’t.’ 

‘Why?’ 

Maisie rested her chin on her hand, and, still 
regarding the sea, spoke hurriedly — 

4 1 know what you want perfectly well, but I 
can’t give it you, Dick. It isn’t my fault ; indeed, 
it isn’t. If I felt that I could care for any one 

But I don’t feel that I care. I simply don’t 

understand what the feeling means.’ 

4 Is that true, dear ? ’ 

‘You’ve been very good to me, Dickie; and the 
only way I can pay you back is by speaking the 


114 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


chap. 


truth. I daren’t tell a fib. I despise myself quite 
enough as it is.’ 

4 What in the world for ? ’ 

‘Because — because I take everything that you 
give me and I give you nothing in return. It’s 
mean and selfish of me, and whenever I think of it 
it worries me.’ 

‘ Understand once for all, then, that I can 
manage my own affairs, and if I choose to do any- 
thing you aren’t to blame. You haven’t a single 
thing to reproach yourself with, darling.’ 

‘Yes, I have, and talking only makes it 
worse.’ 

‘ Then don’t talk about it.’ 

‘ How can I help myself? If you find me alone 
for a minute you are always talking about it ; and 
when you aren’t you look it. You don’t know how 
I despise myself sometimes.’ 

‘ Great goodness ! ’ said Dick, pearly jumping to 
his feet. ‘ Speak the truth now, Maisie, if you 
never speak it again ! Do I — does this worrying 
bore you?’ 

‘No. It does not.’ 

‘ You’d tell me if it did ? ’ 

‘ I should let you know, I think.’ 

* Thank you. The other thing is fatal. But 
you must learn to forgive a man when he’s in 


VII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 115 

love. He’s always a nuisance. You must have 
known that ? ’ 

Maisie did not consider the last question worth 
answering, and Dick was forced to repeat it. 

‘ There were other men, of course. They always 
worried just when I was in the middle of my work, 
and wanted me to listen to them.’ 

4 Did you listen ? ’ 

‘ At first ; and they couldn’t understand why I 
didn’t care. And they used to praise my pictures ; 
and I thought they meant it. I used to be proud 
of the praise, and tell Kami, and — I shall never 
forget — once Kami laughed at me.’ 

‘You don’t like being laughed at, Maisie, do 
you?’ 

‘ I hate it. I never laugh at other people 
unless — unless they do bad work. Dick, tell me 
honestly what you think of my pictures generally, 
— of everything of mine that you’ve seen.’ 

‘ “ Honest, honest, and honest over ! ” ’ quoted 
Dick from a catchword of long ago. ‘ Tell me what 
Kami always says.’ 

Maisie hesitated. ‘ He — he says that there is 
feeling in them.’ 

‘ How dare you tell me a fib like that ? Re- 
member, I was under Kami for two years. I know 
exactly what he says.’ 


116 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ It isn’t a fib.’ 

4 It’s worse; it’s a half-truth. Kami says, when 
he puts his head on one side, — so, — “II y a du 
sentiment , mais il n'y a pas de parti pris”’ > He 
rolled the r threateningly, as Kami used to do. 

‘Yes, that is what he says; and I’m beginning 
to think that he is right.’ 

‘ Certainly he is.’ Dick admitted that two 
people in the world could do and say no wrong. 
Kami was the man. 

‘ And now you say the same thing. It’s so 
disheartening. ’ 

4 I’m sorry, but you asked me to speak the truth. 
Besides, I love you too much to pretend about your 
work. It’s strong, it’s patient sometimes, — not 
always, — and sometimes there’s power in it, but 
there’s no special reason why it should be done at 
all. At least, that’s how it strikes me.’ 

‘There’s no special reason why anything in the 
world should ever be done. You know that as well 
as I do. I only want success.’ 

‘ You’re going the wrong way to get it, then. 
Hasn’t Kami ever told you so ? ’ 

‘ Don’t quote Kami to me. I want to know 
what you think. My work’s bad, to begin with.’ 

‘ I didn’t say that, and I don’t think it.’ 

4 It’s amateurish, then.’ 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


117 


‘That it most certainly is not. You’re a work- 
woman, darling, to your boot-heels, and I respect 
you for that.’ 

‘ You don’t laugh at me behind my back ? ’ 

‘No, dear. You see, you are more to me than 
any one else. Put this cloak thing round you, or 
you’ll get chilled.’ 

Maisie wrapped herself in the soft marten skins, 
turning the gray kangaroo fur to the outside. 

‘ This is delicious,’ she said, rubbing her chin 
thoughtfully along the fur. ‘Well? Why am I 
wrong in trying to get a little success ? ’ 

‘ Just because you try. Don’t you understand, 
darling ? Good work has nothing to do with — 
doesn’t belong to — the person who does it. It’s 
put into him or her from outside.’ 

‘ But how does that affect ’ 

‘Wait a minute. All we can do is to learn how 
to do our work, to be masters of our materials 
instead of servants, and never to be afraid of any- 
thing.’ 

‘ I understand that.’ 

‘ Everything else comes from outside ourselves. 
Very good. If we sit down quietly to work out 
notions that are sent to us, we may or we may not 
do something that isn’t bad. A great deal depends 
on being master of the bricks and mortar of the 


118 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


trade. But the instant we begin to think about 
success and the effect of our work — to play with 
one eye on the gallery — we lose power and touch 
and everything else. At least that’s how I have 
found it. Instead of being quiet and giving every 
power you possess to your work, you’re fretting over 
something which you can neither help nor hinder 
by a minute. See ? ’ 

‘ It’s so easy for you to talk in that way. People 
like what you do. Don’t you ever think about the 
gallery ? ’ 

‘ Much too often ; but I’m always punished for 
it by loss of power. It’s as simple as the Rule of 
Three. If we make light of our work by using it 
for our own ends, our work will make light of us, 
and, as we’re the weaker, we shall suffer.’ 

‘ I don’t treat my work lightly. You know that 
it’s everything to me.’ 

4 Of course ; but, whether you realise it or not, 
you give two strokes for yourself to one for your 
work. It isn’t your fault, darling. I do exactly 
the same thing, and know that I’m doing it. Most 
of the French schools, and all the schools here, 
drive the students to work for their own credit, and 
for the sake of their pride. I was told that all the 
world was interested in my work, and everybody at 
Kami’s talked turpentine, and I honestly believed 


vn THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 119 

that the world needed elevating and influencing, and 
all manner of impertinences, by my brushes. By 
Jove, I actually believed that ! When my little 
head was bursting with a notion that I couldn’t 
handle because I hadn’t sufficient knowledge of my 
craft, I used to run about wondering at my ow r n 
magnificence and getting ready to astonish the 
world.’ 

‘ But surely one can do that sometimes ? ’ 

‘Very seldom with malice aforethought, darling. 
And when it’s done it’s stich a tiny thing, and the 
world’s so big, and all but a millionth part of it 
doesn’t care. Maisie, come with me and I’ll show 
you something of the size of the world. One can 
no more avoid working than eating, — that goes on 
by itself, — but try to see what you are working for. 
I know such little heavens that 1 could take you to, 
— islands tucked away under the Line. You sight 
them after weeks of crashing through water as black 
as black marble because it’s so deep, and you sit in 
the fore-chains day after day and see the sun rise 
almost afraid because the sea’s so lonely.’ 

‘ Who is afraid ? — you, or the sun ? ’ 

4 The sun, of course. And there are noises under 
the sea, and sounds overhead in a clear sky. Then 
you find your island alive with hot moist orchids 
that make mouths at you and can do everything 


120 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


except talk. There’s a waterfall in it three hundred 
feet high, just like a sliver of green jade laced with 
silver ; and millions of wild bees live up in the 
rocks ; and you can hear the fat cocoanuts falling 
from the palms ; and you order an ivory-white 
servant to sling you a long yellow hammock with 
tassels on it like ripe maize, and you put up your 
feet and hear the bees hum and the water fall till 
you go to sleep.’ 

4 Can one work there ? ’ 

4 Certainly. One must do something always. 
You hang your canvas up in a palm tree and let 
the parrots criticise. When they scuffle you heave 
a ripe custard-apple at them, and it bursts in a 
lather of cream. There are hundreds of places. 
Come and see them.’ 

4 1 don’t quite like that place. It sounds lazy. 
Tell me another.’ 

4 What do you think of a big, red, dead city built 
of red sandstone, with raw green aloes growing between 
the stones, lying out neglected on honey-coloured 
sands ? There are forty dead kings there, Maisie, 
each in a gorgeous tomb finer than all the others. 
You look at the palaces and streets and shops and 
tanks, and think that men must live there, till you 
find a wee gray squirrel rubbing its nose all alone 
in the market-place, and a jewelled peacock struts 


vn THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 121 

out of a carved doorway and spreads its tail against 
a marble screen as fine pierced as point-lace. Then 
a monkey — a little black monkey — walks through 
the main square to get a drink from a tank forty 
feet deep. He slides down the creepers to the 
water’s edge, and a friend holds him by the tail, 
in case he should fall in.’ 

4 Is all that true ? ’ 

4 1 have been there and seen. Then evening 
comes, and the lights change till it’s just as though 
you stood in the heart of a king-opal. A little 
before sundown, as punctually as clockwork, a big 
bristly wild boar, with all his family following, trots 
through the city gate, churning the foam on his 
tusks. You climb on the shoulder of a blind black 
stone god and watch that pig choose himself a pal- 
ace for the night and stump in wagging his tail. 
Then the night-wind gets up, and the sands move, 
and you hear the desert outside the city singing, 
44 Now I lay me down to sleep,” and everything is 
dark till the moon rises. Maisie, darling, come with 
me and see what the world is really like. It’s very 
lovely, and it’s very horrible, — but I won’t let you 
see anything horrid, — and it doesn’t care your life 
or mine for pictures or anything else except doing 
its own work and making love. Come, and I’ll 
show you how to brew sangaree, and sling a ham- 


122 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


mock, and — ok, thousands of things, and you’ll see 
for yourself what colour means, and we’ll find out 
together what love means, and then, maybe, we shall 
be allowed to do some good work. Come away ! ’ 

4 Why ? ’ said Maisie. 

‘How can you do anything until you have seen 
everything, or as much as you can? And besides, 
darling, I love you. Come along with me. You 
have no business here ; you don’t belong to this 
place ; you’re half a gipsy, — your face tells that ; 
and I — even the smell of open water makes me 
restless. Come across the sea and be happy ! ’ 

He had risen to his feet, and stood in the 
shadow of the gun, looking down at the girl. 
The very short winter afternoon had worn away, 
and, before they knew, the winter moon was walk- 
ing the untroubled sea. Long ruled lines of silver 
showed where a ripple of the rising tide was turn- 
ing over the mud-banks. The wind had dropped, 
and in the intense stillness they could hear a don- 
key cropping the frosty grass many yards away. 
A faint beating, like that of a muffled drum, came 
out of the moon-haze. 

‘ What’s that ? ’ said Maisie, quickly. ‘ It sounds 
like a heart beating. Where is it ? ’ 

Dick was so angry at this sudden wrench to his 
pleadings that he could not trust himself to speak, 


VII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 123 

and in this silence caught the sound. Maisie from 
her seat under the gun watched him with a certain 
amount of fear. She wished so much that he would 
be sensible and cease to worry her with over-sea 
emotion that she both could and could not under- 
stand. She was not prepared, however, for the 
change in his face as he listened. 

4 It’s a steamer,’ he said, — 4 a twin-screw steamer, 
by the beat. I can’t make her out, but she must 
be standing very close in-shore. Ah ! ’ as the red 
of a rocket streaked the haze, 4 she’s standing in to 
signal before she clears the Channel.’ 

4 Is it a wreck ? ’ said Maisie, to whom these 
words were as Greek. 

Dick’s eyes were turned to the sea. ‘Wreck! 
What nonsense ! She’s only reporting herself. 
Red rocket forward — there’s a green light aft 
now, and two red rockets from the bridge.’ 

4 What does that mean ? ’ 

4 It’s the signal of the Cross Keys Line running 
to Australia. I wonder which steamer it is.’ The 
note of his voice had changed ; he seemed to be 
talking to himself, and Maisie did not approve of 
it. The moonlight broke the haze for a moment, 
touching the black sides of a long steamer working 
down Channel. ‘Four masts and three funnels — 
she’s in deep draught, too. That must be the 


124 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Barr along, or the Bhutia . No, the Bhutia has a 
clipper bow. It’s the Barralong, to Australia. 
She’ll lift the Southern Cross in a week, — lucky 
old tub ! — oh, lucky old tub ! ’ 

He stared intently, and moved up the slope of 
the fort to get a better view, but the mist on the 
sea thickened again, and the beating of the screws 
grew fainter. Maisie called to him a little angrily, 
and he returned, still keeping his eyes to seaward. 

‘ Have you ever seen the Southern Cross blazing 
right over your head ? ’ he asked. ‘ It’s superb ! ’ 
‘No,’ she said shortly, ‘and I don’t want to. If 
you think it’s so lovely, why don’t you go and see 
it yourself ? ’ 

She raised her face from the soft blackness of the 
marten skins about her throat, and her eyes shone 
like diamonds. The moonlight on the gray kanga- 
roo fur turned it to frosted silver of the coldest. 

‘By Jove, Maisie, you look like a little heathen 
idol tucked up there.’ The eyes showed that they 
did not appreciate the compliment. ‘I’m sorry,’ 
he continued. ‘ The Southern Cross isn’t worth 
looking at unless some one helps you to see. That 
steamer’s out of hearing.’ 

‘ Dick,’ she said quietly, ‘ suppose I were to come 
to you now, — be quiet a minute, — just as I am, 
and caring for you just as much as I do.’ 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


125 


4 Not as a brother, though? You said you didn’t 
— in the Park.’ 

4 1 never had a brother. Suppose I said, 44 Take 
me to those places, and in time, perhaps, I might 
really care for you,” what would you do ? ’ 

4 Send you straight back to where you came from, 
in a cab. No, I wouldn’t; I’d let you walk. But 
you couldn’t do it, dear. And I wouldn’t run the 
risk. You’re worth waiting for till you can come 
without reservation.’ 

4 Do you honestly believe that? ’ 

4 1 have a hazy sort of idea that I do. Has it 
never struck you in that light?’ 

4 Ye — es. I feel so wicked about it.’ 

4 Wickeder than usual? ’ 

4 You don’t know all I think. It’s almost too 
awful to tell.’ 

‘Never mind. You promised to tell me the 
truth — at least.’ 

4 It’s so ungrateful of me, but — but, though I 
know you care for me, and I like to have you with 
me, I’d — I’d even sacrifice you, if that would bring 
me what I want.’ 

4 My poor little darling! I know that state of 
mind. It doesn’t lead to good work.’ 

‘You aren’t angry? Remember, I do despise 
myself.’ 


126 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED chap. 

‘ I’m not exactly flattered, — I had guessed as 
much before, — but I’m not angry. I’m sorry for 
you. Surely you ought to have left a littleness like 
that behind you, years ago.’ 

‘You’ve no right to patronise me! I only want 
what I have worked for so long. It came to you 
without any trouble, and — and I don’t think it’s 
fair.’ 

4 What can I do ? I’d give ten years of my life 
to get you what you want. But I can’t help you; 
even I can’t help.’ 

A murmur of dissent from Maisie. He went on — 

‘And I know by what you have just said that 
you’re on the wrong road to success. It isn’t got at by 
sacrificing other people, — I’ve had that much knocked 
into me ; you must sacrifice yourself, and live under 
orders, and never think for yourself, and never have 
real satisfaction in your work except just at the 
beginning, when you’re reaching out after a notion.’ 

‘ How can you believe all that? ’ 

‘ There’s no question of belief or disbelief. That’s 
the law, and you take it or refuse it as you please. 
I try to obey, but I can’t, and then my work turns bad 
on my hands. Under any circumstances, remember, 
four-fifths of everybody’s work must be bad. But 
the remnant is worth the trouble for its own sake.’ 

‘ Isn’t it nice to get credit even for bad work? ’ 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


127 


4 It’s much too nice. But May I tell you 

something? It isn’t a pretty tale, but you’re so 
like a man that I forget when I’m talking to you.’ 

4 Tell me.’ 

4 Once when I was out in the Soudan I went 
over some ground that we had been fighting on for 
three days. There were twelve hundred dead ; and 
we hadn’t time to bury them.’ 

4 How ghastly ! ’ 

4 1 had been at work on a big double-sheet 
sketch, and I was wondering what people would 
think of it at home. The sight of that field taught 
me a good deal. It looked just like a bed of horrible 
toadstools in all colours, and — I’d never seen men 
in bulk go back to their beginnings before. So I 
began to understand that men and women were 
only material to work with, and that what they 
said or did was of no consequence. See? Strictly 
speaking, you might just as well put your ear down 
to the palette to catch what your colours are 
saying.’ 

4 Dick, that’s disgraceful ! ’ 

‘Wait a minute. I said, strictly speaking. Un- 
fortunately, everybody must be either a man or a 
woman.’ 

4 I’m glad you allow that much.’ 

4 In your case I don’t. You aren’t a woman. 


128 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


But ordinary people, Maisie, must behave and work 
as such. That’s what makes me so savage.’ He 
hurled a pebble towards the sea as he spoke. ‘ I 
know that it is outside my business to care what 
people say ; I can see that it spoils my output if I 
listen to ’em; and yet, confound it all,’ — another 
pebble flew seaward, — ‘I can’t help purring when 
I’m rubbed the right way. Even when I can see 
on a man’s forehead that he is lying his way through 
a clump of pretty speeches, those lies make me 
happy and play the mischief with my hand.’ 

‘ And when he doesn’t say pretty things ? ’ 

‘ Then, belovedest,’ — Dick grinned, — ‘ I forget 
that I am the steward of these gifts, and I want to 
make that man love and appreciate my work with 
a thick stick. It’s too humiliating altogether ; but 
I suppose even if one were an angel and painted 
humans altogether from outside, one would lose in 
touch what one gained in grip.’ 

Maisie laughed at the idea of Dick as an 
angel. 

‘But you seem to think,’ she said, ‘that every- 
thing nice spoils your hand.’ 

‘I don’t think. It’s the law, — just the same as 
it was at Mrs. Jennett’s. Everything that is nice 
does spoil your hand. I’m glad you see so clearly.’ 

‘I don’t like the view.’ 


VII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 129 

‘Nor I. But — have got orders: what can do? 
Are yon strong enough to face it alone ? ’ 

‘I suppose I must.’ 

4 Let me help, darling. W e can hold each other 
very tight and try to walk straight. We shall 
blunder horribly, but it will be better than stumbling 
apart. Maisie, can’t you see reason ? ’ 

4 1 don’t think we should get on together. We 
should be two of a trade, so we should never agree.’ 

4 How I should like to meet the man who made 
that proverb ! He lived in a cave and ate raw bear, 
I fancy. I’d make him chew his own arrow-heads. 
Well?’ 

4 1 should be only half married to you. I should 
worry and fuss about my work, as I do now. Four 
days out of the seven I’m not fit to speak to.’ 

4 You talk as if no one else in the world had 
ever used a brush. D’you suppose that I don’t 
know the feeling of worry and bother and can’t-get- 
at-ness? You’re lucky if you only have it four 
days out of the seven. What difference would that 
make ? ’ 

4 A great deal — if you had it too.’ 

4 Yes, but I could respect it. Another man 
might not. He might laugh at you. But there’s 
no use talking about it. If you can think in that 
way you can’t care for me — yet.’ 


130 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


The tide had nearly covered the mud-banks, and 
twenty little ripples broke on the beach before 
Maisie chose to speak. 

* Dick,’ she said slowly, 4 1 believe very much 
that you are^ better than I am.’ 

‘This doesn’t seem to bear on the argument — 
but in what way ? ’ 

‘ I don’t quite know, but in what you said about 
work and things ; and then you’re so patient. Yes, 
you’re, better than I am.’ 

Dick considered rapidly the murkiness of an 
average man’s life. There was nothing in the 
review to fill him with a sense of virtue. He lifted 
the hem of the cloak to his lips. 

‘Why,’ said Maisie, making as though she had 
not noticed, ‘can you see things that I can’t? I 
don’t believe what you believe ; but you’re right, I 
believe.’ 

‘ If I’ve seen anything, God knows I couldn’t 
have seen it but for you, and I know that I couldn’t 
have said it except to you. You seemed to make 
everything clear for a minute ; but I don’t practise 
what I preach. You would help me. . . . There 
are only us two in the world for all purposes, and 
— and you like to have me with you ? ’ 

‘Of course I do. I wonder if you can realise 
how utterly lonely I am!’ 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


131 


‘Darling, I think I can.’ 

‘Two years ago, when I first took the little 
house, I used to walk up and down the hack-garden 
trying to cry. I never can cry. Can you ? ’ 

‘It’s some time since I tried. What was the 
trouble ? Overwork ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know ; but I used to dream that I had 
broken down, and had no money, and was starving 
in London. I thought about it all day, and it 
frightened me — oh, how it frightened me ! ’ 

‘ I know that fear. It’s the most terrible of all. 
It wakes me up in the night sometimes. You 
oughtn’t to know anything about it.’ 

‘ How do you know ? ’ 

‘Never mind. Is your three hundred a year 
safe ? ’ 

‘ It’s in Consols.’ 

‘Very well. If any one comes to you and 
recommends a better investment, — even if I should 
come to you, — don’t you listen. Never shift the 
money for a minute, and never lend a penny of it, 
— even to the red-haired girl.’ 

‘ Don’t scold me so ! I’m not likely to be 
foolish.’ 

‘The earth is full of men who’d sell their souls 
for three hundred a year; and women come and 
talk, and borrow a five-pound note here and a ten- 


♦ 132 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


pound note there ; and a woman has no conscience 
in a money debt. Stick to your money, Maisie , 
for there’s nothing more ghastly in the world than 
poverty in London. It’s scared me. By Jove, it 
put the fear into me! And one oughtn’t to be 
afraid of anything.’ 

N To each man is appointed his particular dread, 
— the terror that, if he does not fight against it, 
must cow him even to the loss of his manhood. 
Dick’s experience of the sordid misery of want had 
entered into the deeps of him, and, lest he might 
find virtue too easy, that memory stood behind 
him, tempting to shame, when dealers came to buy 
his wares. As the Nilghai quaked against his will 
at the still green water of a lake or a mill-dam, as 
Torpenhow flinched before any white arm that could 
cut or stab and loathed himself for flinching, Dick 
feared the poverty he had once tasted half in jest. 
His burden was heavier than the burdens of his 
companions. 

Maisie watched the face working in the moon- 
light. 

‘You’ve plenty of pennies now,’ she said sooth- 
ingly. 

‘ I shall never get enough,’ he began, with vicious 
emphasis. Then, laughing, ‘ I shall always be three- 
pence short in my accounts.’ 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


133 


4 Why threepence ? ’ 

4 1 carried a man’s bag once from Liverpool 
Street Station to Blackfriars Bridge. It was a 
sixpenny job, — you needn’t laugh; indeed it was, 
- - and I wanted the money desperately. He only 
gave me threepence ; and he hadn’t even the 
decency to pay in silver. Whatever money I 
make, I shall never get that odd threepence out of 
the world.’ 

This was not language befitting the man who 
had preached of the sanctity of work. It jarred on 
Maisie, who preferred her payment in applause, 
which, since all men desire it, must be of the right. 
She hunted for her little purse and gravely took out 
a threepenny bit. 

4 There it is,’ she said. 4 I’ll pay you, Dickie ; 
and don’t worry any more ; it isn’t worth while. 
Are you paid ? ’ 

4 1 am,’ said the very human apostle of fair craft, 
taking the coin. 4 I’m paid a thousand times, and 
we’ll close that account. It shall live on my 
watch-chain ; and you’re an angel, Maisie.’ 

4 I’m very cramped, and I’m feeling a little cold. 
Good gracious ! the cloak is all white, and so is 
your moustache ! I never knew it was so chilly.’ 

A light frost lay white on the shoulder of Dick’s 
ulster. He, too, had forgotten the state of the 


134 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


weather. They laughed together, and with that 
laugh ended all serious discourse. 

They ran inland across the waste to warm them- 
selves, then turned to look at the glory of the full 
tide under the moonlight and the intense black 
shadows of the furze bushes. It was an additional 
joy to Dick that Maisie could see colour even as he 
saw it, — could see the blue in the white of the 
mist, the violet that is in gray palings, and all 
things else as they are, — not of one hue, but a 
thousand. And the moonlight came into Maisie’s 
soul, so that she, usually reserved, chattered of 
herself and of the things she took interest in, — of 
Kami, wisest of teachers, and of the girls in the 
studio, — of the Poles, who will kill themselves 
with overwork if they are not checked ; of the 
French, who talk at great length of much more 
than they will ever accomplish; of the slovenly 
English, who toil hopelessly and cannot understand 
that inclination does not imply power ; of the 
Americans, whose rasping voices in the hush of a 
hot afternoon strain tense-drawn nerves to breaking- 
point, and whose suppers lead to indigestion ; of 
tempestuous Russians, neither to hold nor to bind, 
who tell the girls ghost-stories till the girls shriek ; 
of stolid Germans, who come to learn one thing, and, 
having mastered that much, stolidly go away and 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


135 


copy pictures for evermore. Dick listened en- 
raptured because it was Maisie who spoke. He 
knew the old life. 

4 It hasn’t changed much,’ he said. 4 Do they 
still steal colours at lunch-time ? ’ 

4 Not steal. Attract is the word. Of course 
they do. I’m good — I only attract ultramarine; 
but there are students who’d attract flake- white.’ 

4 I’ve done it myself. You can’t help it when 
the palettes are hung up. Every colour is common 
property once it runs down, — even though you do 
start it with a drop of oil. It teaches people not 
to waste their tubes.’ 

4 1 should like to attract some of your colours, 
Dick. Perhaps I might catch your success with them.’ 

4 1 mustn’t say a bad word, but I should like to. 
What in the world, which you’ve just missed a 
lovely chance of seeing, does success or want of 
success, or a three-storied success, matter compared 

w ith No, I won’t open that question again. 

It’s time to go back to town.’ 

4 I’m sorry, Dick, but ’ 

‘You’re much more interested in that than you 
are in me.’ 

4 1 don’t know, I don’t think I am.’ 

4 What will you give me if I tell you a sure 
short-cut to everything you want, — the trouble and 


136 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the fuss and the tangle and all the rest ? Will you 
promise to obey me ? ’ 

4 Of course.’ 

4 In the first place, you must never forget a meal 
because you happen to be at work. You forgot 
your lunch twice last week,’ said Dick, at a venture, 
for he knew with whom he was dealing. 

4 No, no, — only once, really.’ 

4 That’s bad enough. And you mustn’t take a 
cup of tea and a biscuit in place of a regular dinner, 
because dinner happens to be a trouble.’ 

4 You’re making fun of me ! ’ 

4 1 never was more in earnest in my life. Oh, 
my love, my love, hasn’t it dawned on you yet what 
you are to me? Here’s the whole earth in a 
conspiracy to give you a chill, or run over you, or 
drench you to the skin, or cheat you out of your 
money, or let you die of overwork and underfeeding, 
and I haven’t the mere right to look after you. 
Why, I don’t even know if you have sense enough 
to put on warm things when the weather’s cold.’ 

4 Dick, you’re the most awful boy to talk to — 
really ! How do you suppose I managed when you 
were away ? ’ 

4 1 wasn’t here, and I didn’t know. But now 
I’m back I’d give everything I have for the right of 
telling you to come in out of the rain.’ 


vn 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


137 


‘Your success too?’ 

This time it cost Dick a severe struggle to 
refrain from bad words. 

‘As Mrs. Jennett used to say, you’re a trial, 
Maisie ! You’ve been cooped up in the schools 
too long, and you think every one is looking at 
you. There aren’t twelve hundred people in the 
world who understand pictures. The others pre- 
tend and don’t care. Remember, I’ve seen twelve 
hundred men dead in toadstool-beds. It’s only 
the voice of the tiniest little fraction of people that 
makes success. The real world doesn’t care a 
tinker’s — doesn’t care a bit. For aught you or I 
know, every man in the world may be arguing with 
a Maisie of his own.’ 

‘ Poor Maisie ! ’ 

‘ Poor Dick, I think. Do you believe while he’s 
fighting for what’s dearer than his life he wants to 
look at a picture ? And even if he did, and if all fhe 
world did, and a thousand million people rose up 
and shouted hymns eo my honour and glory, would 
that make up to me for the knowledge that you 
were out shopping in the Edgware Road on a rainy 
day without an umbrella? Now we’ll go to the 
station.’ 

‘ But you said on the beach 
with a certain fear. 


’ persisted Maisie, 


138 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Dick groaned aloud : 4 Yes, I know what I said. 
My work is everything I have, or am, or hope to be, 
to me, and I believe I’ve learnt the law that governs 
it ; but I’ve some lingering sense of fun left, — 
though you’ve nearly knocked it out of me. I can 
just see that it isn’t everything to all the world. 
Do what I say, and not what I do.’ 

Maisie was careful not to reopen debatable 
matters, and they returned to London joyously. 
The 'terminus stopped Dick in the midst of an 
eloquent harangue on the beauties of exercise. He 
would buy Maisie a horse, — such a horse as never 
yet bowed head to bit, — would stable it, with a 
companion, some twenty miles from London, and 
Maisie, solely for her health’s sake, should ride 
with him twice or thrice a week. 

4 That’s absurd,’ said she. 4 It wouldn’t be 
proper.’ 

4 Now, who in all London to-night would have 
sufficient interest or audacity to call us two to 
account for anything we chose to do ? ’ 

Maisie looked at the lamps, the fog, and the 
hideous turmoil. Dick was right; but horseflesh 
did not make for Art as she understood it. 

4 You’re very nice sometimes, but you’re very 
foolish more times. I’m not going to let you give 
me horses, or take you out of your way to-night. 


VII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


139 


I’ll go home by myself. Only I want you to 
promise me something. You won’t think any more 
about that extra threepence, will you? Remember, 
you’ve been paid ; and I won’t allow you to be 
spiteful and do bad work for a little thing like that. 
You can be so big that you mustn’t be tiny.’ 

This was turning the tables with a vengeance. 
There remained only to put Maisie into her 
hansom. 

‘Good-bye,’ she said simply. ‘You’ll come on 
Sunday. It has been a beautiful day, Dick. Why 
can’t it be like this always ? ’ 

‘ Because love’s like line-work : you must go 
forward or backward ; you can’t stand still. By 
the way, go on with your line- work. Good-night, 
and, for my — for any sake, take care of yourself.’ 

He turned to walk home, meditating. The day 
had brought him nothing that he hoped for, but — 
surely this was worth many days — it had brought 
him nearer to Maisie. The end was only a ques- 
tion of time now, and the prize well worth the 
waiting. By instinct, once more, he turned to the 
river. 

‘ And she understood at once,’ he said, looking 
at the water. ‘ She found out my pet besetting sin 
on the spot, and paid it off. My God, how she 
understood! And she said I was better than she 


140 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. VII 


was ! Better than she was ! ’ He laughed at the 
absurdity of the notion. ‘ I wonder if girls guess 
at one-half a man’s life. They can’t, or — they 
wouldn’t marry us.’ He took her gift out of his 
pocket, and considered it in the light of a miracle 
and a pledge of the comprehension that, one day, 
would lead to perfect happiness. Meantime, Maisie 
was alone in London, with none to save her from 
danger. And the packed wilderness was very full 
of danger. 

Dick made his prayer to Fate disjoin tedly after 
the manner of the heathen as he threw the piece 
of silver into the river. If any evil were to befall, 
let him bear the burden and let Maisie go unscathed, 
since the threepenny piece was dearest to him of 
all his possessions. It was a small coin in itself, 
but Maisie had given it, and the Thames held it, 
and surely the Fates would be bribed for this once. 

The drowning of the coin seemed to cut him free 
from thought of Maisie for the moment. He took 
himself off the bridge and went whistling to his 
chambers with a strong yearning for some man-talk 
and tobacco after his first experience of an entire 
day spent in the society of a woman. There was a 
stronger desire at his heart when there rose before 
him an unsolicited vision of the Barralong dipping 
deep and sailing free for the Southern Cross. 


CHAPTER VIII 


And these two, as I have told you, 

Were the friends of Hiawatha, 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

— Hiawatha. 

Torpenhow was paging the last sheets of some 
manuscript, while the Nilghai, who had come for chess 
and remained to talk tactics, was reading through 
the first part, commenting scornfully the while. 

‘ It’s picturesque enough and it’s sketchy,’ said he ; 
4 but as a serious consideration of affairs in Eastern 
Europe, it’s not worth much.’ 

4 It’s off my hands at any rate. . . . Thirty- 
seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine slips altogether, 
aren’t there? That should make between eleven 
and twelve pages of valuable misinformation. 
Heigho ! ’ Torpenhow shuffled the writing together 
and hummed — 

Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell, 

If I’d as much money as I could tell, 

I never would cry, Young lambs to sell 1 
141 


142 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Dick entered, self-conscious and a little defiant, 
but in the best of tempers with all the world. 

‘Back at last?’ said Torpenhow. 

‘More or less. What have you been doing?’ 

‘Work. Dickie, you behave as though the Bank 
of England were behind you. Here’s Sunday, Mon- 
day, and Tuesday gone and you haven’t done a line. 
It’s scandalous.’ 

‘ The notions come and go, my children — they 
come * and go like our ’baccy,’ he answered, filling 
his pipe. ‘Moreover,’ he stooped to thrust a spill 
into the grate, ‘Apollo does not always stretch his 
Oh, confound your clumsy jests, Nilghai ! ’ 

‘ This is not the place to preach the theory of 
direct inspiration,’ said the Nilghai, returning Tor- 
penhow’s large and workmanlike bellows to their 
nail on the wall. ‘We believe in cobblers’ wax. 
La! — where you sit down.’ 

‘ If you weren’t so big and fat,’ said Dick, looking 
round for a weapon, ‘ I’d ’ 

‘No skylarking in my rooms. You two smashed 
half my furniture last time you threw the cushions 
about. You might have the decency to say How 
d’you do? to Binkie. Look at him.’ 

Binkie had jumped down from the sofa and was 
fawning round Dick’s knee, and scratching at his 
boots. 


vra 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


143 


‘ Dear man ! ’ said Dick, snatching him up, and 
kissing him on the black patch above his right eye. 
4 Did ums was, Binks ? Did that ugly Nilghai turn 
you off the sofa? Bite him, Mr. Binkle.’ He 
pitched him on the Nilghai’s stomach, as the big 
man lay at ease, and Binkie pretended to destroy 
the Nilghai inch by inch, till a sofa cushion ex- 
tinguished him, and panting he stuck out his 
tongue at the company. 

‘The Binkie-boy went for a walk this morning 
before you were up, Torp. I saw him making love 
to the butcher at the corner when the shutters were 
being taken down — just as if he hadn’t enough to 
eat in his own proper house,’ said Dick. 

‘Binks, is that a true bill?’ said Torpenhow, 
severely. The little dog retreated under the sofa 
cushion, and showed by the fat white back of him that 
he really had no further interest in the discussion. 

‘Strikes me that another disreputable dog went 
for a walk, too,’ said the Nilghai. ‘ What made you 
get up so early ? Torp said you might be buying 
a horse.’ 

‘ He knows it would need three of us for a serious 
business like that. No, I felt lonesome and un- 
happy, so I went out to look at the sea, and watch 
the pretty ships go by.’ 

‘ Where did you go ? ’ 


144 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ Somewhere on the Channel. Progly or Snigly, 
or some watering-place was its name ; I’ve for- 
gotten ; but it was only two hours’ run from 
London and the ships went by.’ 

4 Did you see anything you knew ? ’ 

4 Only the Barralong outwards to Australia, and 
an Odessa grain-boat loaded down by the head. It 
was a thick day, but the sea smelt good.’ 

4 Wherefore put on one’s best trousers to see the 
Barralong ?’ said Torpenhow, pointing. 

‘Because I’ve nothing except these things and 
my painting duds. Besides, I wanted to do honour 
to the sea.’ 

4 Did She make you feel restless ? ’ asked the 
Nilghai, keenly. 

‘Crazy. Don’t speak of it. I’m sorry I went.’ 

Torpenhow and the Nilghai exchanged a look as 
Dick, stooping, busied himself among the former’s 
boots and trees. 

4 These will do,’ he said at last ; 4 1 can’t say I 
think much of your taste in slippers, but the fit’s 
the thing.’ He slipped his feet into a pair of sock- 
like sambhur-skin foot coverings, found a long chair, 
and lay at length. 

‘They’re my own pet pair,’ Torpenhow said. 4 1 
was just going to put them on myself.’ 

‘All your reprehensible selfishness. Just because 


VIII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 145 

you see me happy for a minute, you want to worry 
me and stir me up. Find another pair.’ 

‘ Good for you that Dick can’t wear your clothes, 
Torp. You two live communistically,’ said the 
Nilghai. 

‘ Dick never has anything that I can wear. He’s 
only useful to sponge upon.’ 

‘ Confound you, have you been rummaging round 
among my caches, then ? ’ said Dick. ‘ I put a sover- 
eign in the tobacco-jar yesterday. How do you ex- 
pect a man to keep his accounts properly if you ’ 

Here the Nilghai began to laugh, and Torpenhow 
joined him. 

‘Hid a sovereign yesterday! You’re no sort of 
a financier. You lent me a fiver about a month 
back. Do you remember ? ’ Torpenhow said. 

‘Yes, of course.’ 

‘Do you remember that I paid it you ten days 
later, and you put it at the bottom of the tobacco ? ’ 

‘ By Jove, did I ? I thought it was in one of my 
colour-boxes.’ 

‘ You thought ! About a week ago I went into 
your studio to get some ’baccy and found it.’ 

‘ What did you do with it ? ’ 

‘Took the Nilghai to a theatre and fed him.’ 

‘You couldn’t feed the Nilghai under twice the 
money — not though you gave him Army beef. 


146 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Well, I suppose I should have found it out sooner 
or later. What is there to laugh at ? ’ 

‘You’re a most amazing cuckoo in many direc- 
tions,’ said the Nilghai, still chuckling over the 
thought of the dinner. ‘Never mind. We had 
both been working very hard, and it was your 
unearned increment we spent, and as you’re only 
a loafer it didn’t matter.’ 

‘ That’s pleasant — from the man who is bursting 
with my meat, too. I’ll get that dinner back one 
of these days. Suppose we go to a theatre now.’ 

‘ Put our boots on, — and dress, — and wash ? ’ 
The Nilghai spoke very lazily. 

‘I withdraw the motion.’ 

‘ Suppose, just for a change — as a startling 
variety, you know — we, that is to say we , get our 
charcoal and our canvas and go on with our work.’ 
Torpenhow spoke pointedly, but Dick only wriggled 
his toes inside the soft leather moccasins. 

‘ What a one-ideaed clucker it is ! If I had any 
unfinished figures on hand, I haven’t any model ; 
if I had my model, I haven’t any spray, and I never 
leave charcoal unfixed overnight ; and if I had my 
spray and twenty photographs of backgrounds, I 
couldn’t do anything to-night. I don’t feel that way.’ 

‘Binkie-dog, he’s a lazy hog, isn’t he?’ said the 
Nilghai. 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


147 


‘Very good, T will do some work,’ said Dick, 
rising swiftly. 4 I’ll fetch the Nungapunga Book, 
and we’ll add another picture to the Nilghai 
Saga.’ 

4 Aren’t you worrying him a little too much ? ’ 
asked the Nilghai, when Dick had left the room. 

4 Perhaps, but I know what he can turn out if he 
likes. It makes me savage to hear him praised for 
past work when I know what he ought to do. You 
and I are arranged for ’ 

4 By Kismet and our own powers, more’s the pity. 
I have dreamed of a good deal.’ 

4 So have I, but we know our limitations now. 
I’m dashed if I know what Dick’s may be when 
he gives himself to his work. That’s what makes 
me so keen about him.’ 

4 And when all’s said and done, you will be put 
aside — quite rightly — for a female girl.’ 

4 1 wonder . . . Where do you think he has 
been to-day ? ’ 

4 To the sea. Didn’t you see the look in his 
eyes when he talked about her ? He’s as restless as 
a swallow in autumn.’ 

4 Yes ; but did he go alone ? ’ 

4 1 don’t know, and I don’t care, but he has the 
beginnings of the go-fever upon him. He wants to 
up-stakes and move out. There’s no mistaking the 


148 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


signs. Whatever he may have said before, he has 
the call upon him now.’ 

4 It might be his salvation,’ Torpenhow said. 

4 Perhaps — if you care to take the responsibility 
of being a saviour.’ 

Dick returned with the big clasped sketch-book 
that the Nilghai knew well and did not love too 
much. In it Dick had drawn all manner of moving 
incidents, experienced by himself or related to him 
by the others, of all the four corners of the earth. 
But the wider range of the Nilghai’s body and life 
attracted him most. When truth failed he fell back 
on fiction of the wildest, and represented incidents 
in the Nilghai’s career that were unseemly, — his 
marriages with many African princesses, his shameless 
betrayal, for Arab wives, of an army corps to the 
Mahdi, his tattooment by skilled operators in Bur- 
mah, his interview (and his fears) with the yellow 
headsman in the blood-stained execution-ground of 
Canton, and finally, the passings of his spirit into the 
bodies of whales, elephants, and toucans. Torpen- 
how from time to time had added rhymed descrip- 
tions, and the whole was a curious piece of art, 
because Dick decided, having regard to the name of 
the book which being interpreted means ‘naked,’ 
that it would be wrong to draw the Nilghai with any 
clothes on, under any circumstances. Consequently 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


149 


the last sketch, representing that much-enduring 
man calling on the War Office to press his claims to 
the Egyptian medal, was hardly delicate. He settled 
himself comfortably at Torpenhow’s table and turned 
over the pages. 

4 What a fortune you would have been to Blake, 
Nilghai ! ’ he said. 4 There’s a succulent pinkness 
about some of these sketches that’s more than life- 
like. 44 The Nilghai surrounded while bathing by 
the Mahdieh ” — that was founded on fact, eh ? ’ 

4 It was very nearly my last bath, you irrever- 
ent dauber. Has Binkie come into the Saga 
yet?’ 

4 No; the Binkie-boy hasn’t done anything ex- 
cept eat and kill cats. Let’s see. Here you are 
as a stained-glass saint in a church. ‘Deuced 
decorative lines about your anatomy ; you ought to 
be grateful for being handed down to posterity in 
this way. Fifty years hence you’ll exist in rare 
and curious facsimiles at ten guineas each. What 
shall I try this time? The domestic life of the 
Nilghai ? ’ 

4 Hasn’t got any.’ 

4 The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. Of 
course. Mass-meeting of his wives in Trafalgar 
Square. That’s it. They came from the ends of 
the earth to attend Nilghai’s wedding to an English 


150 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP, 


bride. This shall be in sepia. It’s a sweet 
material to work with.’ 

‘It’s a scandalous waste of time,’ said Torpenhow. 

‘ Don’t worry ; it keeps one’s hand in — specially 
when you begin without the pencil.’ He set to 
work rapidly. ‘ That’s Nelson’s Column. Presently 
the Nilghai will appear shinning up it.’ 

‘ Give him some clothes this time.’ 

‘ Certainly — a veil and an orange-wreath, because 
he’s 'been married.’ 

‘ Gad, that’s clever enough ! ’ said Torpenhow over 
his shoulder, as Dick brought out of the paper with 
three twirls of the brush a very fat back and 
labouring shoulder pressed against the stone. 

‘ Just imagine,’ Dick continued, ‘ if we could 
publish a few of these dear little things every time 
the Nilghai subsidises a man who can write, to give 
the public an honest opinion of my pictures.’ 

‘ Well, you’ll admit I always tell you when I have 
done anything of that kind. I know I can’t hammer 
you as you ought to be hammered, so I give the job 
to another. Young Maclagan, for instance ’ 

‘ No-o — one half -minute, old man ; stick your hand 
out against the dark of the wall-paper — you only 
burble and call me names. That left shoulder’s out 
of drawing. I must literally throw a veil over that. 
Where’s my pen-knife ? Well, what about Maclagan ? ’ 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


151 


4 1 only gave him hisYiding-orders to — to lambast 
you on general principles for not producing work 
that will last.’ 

‘ Whereupon that young fool,’ — Dick threw back 
his head and shut one eye as he shifted the page 
under his hand, — ‘being left alone with an ink-pot 
and what he conceived were his own notions, went 
and spilt them both over me in the papers. You 
might have engaged a grown man for the business, 
Nilghai. How do you think the bridal veil looks 
now, Torp?’ 

‘ How the deuce do three dabs and two scratches 
make the stuff stand away from the body as it 
does ? ’ said Torpenhow, to whom Dick’s methods 
were always new. 

‘ It just depends on where you put ’em. If 
Maclagan had known that much about his busi- 
ness he might have done better.’ 

‘ Why don’t you put the damned dabs into 
something that will stay, then ? ’ insisted the 
Nilghai, who had really taken considerable trouble 
in hiring for Dick’s benefit the pen of a young 
gentleman who devoted most of his waking hours 
to an anxious consideration of the aims and ends 
of Art, which, he wrote, was one and indivisible. 

‘Wait a minute till I see how I am going to 
manage my procession of wives. You seem to have 


152 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


married extensively, and I must rough ’em in with 
the pencil — Medes, Parthians, Edomites. . . . Now, 
setting aside the weakness and the wickedness and 

— and the fat-headedness of deliberately trying to 
do work that will live, as they call it, I’m con- 
tent with the knowledge that I’ve done my best 
up to date, and I shan’t do anything like it again 
for some hours at least — probably years. Most 
probably never.’ 

4 What ! any stuff you have in stock your best 
work? ’ said Torpenhow. 

4 Anything you’ve sold ? ’ said the Nilghai. 

4 Oh no. It isn’t here and it isn’t sold. Better 
than that, it can’t be sold, and I don’t think any 
one knows where it is. I’m sure I don’t. . . . 
And yet more and more wives, on the north side 
of the square. Observe the virtuous horror of the 
lions ! ’ 

4 You may as well explain,’ said Torpenhow, and 
Dick lifted his head from the paper. 

4 The sea reminded me of it,’ he said slowly. 4 1 
wish it hadn’t. It weighs some few thousand tons 

— unless you cut it out with a cold chisel.’ 

‘Don’t be an idiot. You can’t pose with us 
here,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘There’s no pose in the matter at all. It’s a 
fact. I was loafing from Lima to Auckland in a 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


153 


big, old, condemned passenger-ship turned into 
a cargo-boat and owned by a second-hand Italian 
firm. She was a crazy basket. We were cut down 
to fifteen ton of coal a day, and we thought our- 
selves lucky when we kicked seven knots an hour 
out of her. Then we used to stop and let the 
bearings cool down, and wonder whether the crack 
in the shaft was spreading.’ 

‘Were you a steward or a stoker in those days?’ 

‘ I was flush for the time being, so I was a 
passenger, or else I should have been a steward, 
I think,’ said Dick, with perfect gravity, return- 
ing to the procession of angry wives. ‘ I was the 
only other passenger from Lima, and the ship was 
half empty, and full of rats and cockroaches and 
scorpions.’ 

‘ But what has this to do with the picture ? ’ 

‘Wait a minute. She had been in the China 
passenger trade and her lower decks had bunks for 
two thousand pigtails. Those were all taken down, 
and she was empty up to her nose, and the lights 
came through the port-holes — most annoying lights 
to work in till you got used to them. I hadn’t 
anything to do for weeks. The ship’s charts were 
in pieces and our skipper daren’t run south for fear 
of catching a storm. So he did his best to knock 
all the Society Islands out of the water one by one, 


154 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP 


and I went into the lower deck, and did my picture 
on the port side as far forward in her as I could go. 
There was some brown paint and some green paint 
that they used for the boats, and some black paint 
for ironwork, and that was all I had.’ 

4 The passengers must have thought you mad.’ 

4 There was only one, and it was a woman ; but 
it gave me the notion of my picture.’ 

‘ What was she like ? ’ said Torpenhow. 

4 She was a sort of Negroid- Jewess-Cuban ; with 
morals to match. She couldn’t read or write, and 
she didn’t want to, but she used to come down and 
watch me paint, and the skipper didn’t like it, 
because he was paying her passage and had to be 
on the bridge occasionally.’ 

4 1 see. That must have been cheerful.’ 

4 It was the best time I ever had. To begin 
with, we didn’t know whether we should go up or 
go down any minute when there was a sea on ; and 
when it was calm it was paradise ; and the woman 
used to mix the paints and talk broken English, and 
the skipper used to steal down every few minutes 
to the lower deck, because he said he was afraid 
of fire. So, you see, we could never tell when we 
might be caught, and I had a splendid notion to 
work out in only three keys of colour.’ 

4 What was the notion ? ’ 


vm 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


155 


‘Two lines in Poe — 

‘Neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons down 
under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful 
Annabel Lee. 

It came out of the sea — all by itself. I drew that 
fight, fought out in green water over the naked, 
choking soul, and the woman served as the model 
for the devils and the angels both — sea-devils and 
sea-angels, and the soul half drowned between them. 
It doesn’t sound much, but when there was a good 
light on the lower deck it looked very fine and 
creepy. It was seven by fourteen feet, all done in 
shifting light for shifting light.’ 

‘ Did the woman inspire you much ? ’ said 
Torpenhow. 

‘ She and the sea between them — immensely. 
There was a heap of bad drawing in that picture. I 
remember I went out of my way to foreshorten for 
sheer delight of doing it, and I foreshortened 
damnably, but for all that it’s the best thing I’ve 
ever done ; and now I suppose the ship’s broken 
up or gone down. Whew ! What a time that 
was ! ’ 

‘ What happened after all ? ’ 

‘ It all ended. They were loading her with wool 
when I left the ship, but even the stevedores kept 


156 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the picture clear to the last. The eyes of the 
demons scared them, I honestly believe.’ 

4 And the woman ? ’ 

‘She was scared too when it was finished. She 
used to cross herself before she went down to look 
at it. Just three colours and no chance of getting 
any more, and the sea outside and unlimited love- 
making inside, and the fear of death atop of every- 
thing else, O Lord ! ’ He had ceased to look at the 
sketch, but was staring straight in front of him 
across the room. 

‘ Why don’t you try something of the same kind 
now ? ’ said the Nilghai. 

‘Because those things come not by fasting and 
prayer. When I find a cargo-boat and a Jewess- 
Cuban and another notion and the same old life, 
I may.’ 

‘ You won’t find them here,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘ No, I shall not.’ Dick shut the sketch-book with 
a bang. ‘ This room’s as hot as an oven. Open the 
window, some one.’ 

He leaned into the darkness, watching the 
greater darkness of London below him. The 
chambers stood much higher than the other houses, 
commanding a hundred chimneys — crooked cowls 
that looked like sitting cats as they swung round, 
and other uncouth brick and zinc mysteries sup- 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


157 


ported by iron stanchions and clamped by S -pieces. 
Northward the lights of Piccadilly Circus and 
Leicester Square threw a copper-coloured glare 
above the black roofs, and southward by all the 
orderly lights of the Thames. A train rolled out 
across one of the railway bridges, and its thunder 
drowned for a minute the dull roar of the streets. 
The Nilghai looked at his watch and said shortly, 
‘That’s the Paris night-mail. You can book from 
here to St. Petersburg if you choose.’ 

Dick crammed head and shoulders out of the 
window and looked across the river. Torpenhow 
came to his side, while the Nilghai passed over 
quietly to the piano and opened it. Binkie, making 
himself as large as possible, spread out upon the 
sofa with the air of one who is not to be lightly 
disturbed. 

‘Well,’ said the Nilghai to the two pairs of 
shoulders, ‘ have you never seen this place 
before ? ’ 

A steam-tug on the river hooted as she towed 
her barges to wharf. Then the boom of the traffic 
came into the room. Torpenhow nudged Dick. 
‘Good place to bank in — bad place to bunk in, 
Dickie, isn’t it ? ’ 

Dick’s chin was in his hand as he answered, in 
the words of a general not without fame, still looking 


158 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


out on the darkness — ‘ “ My God, what a city to 
loot ! ” ’ 

Binkie found the night air tickling his whiskers 
and sneezed plaintively. 

4 We shall give the Binkie-dog a cold,’ said 
Torpenhow. ‘Come in,’ and they withdrew their 
heads. /You’ll be buried in Kensal Green, Dick, 
one of these days, if it isn’t closed by the time you 
want to go there — buried within two feet of some 
one else, his wife and his family.’ 

‘ Allah forbid ! I shall get away before that 
time comes. Give a man room to stretch his legs, 
Mr. Binkie.’ Dick flung himself down on the sofa 
and tweaked Binkie’s velvet ears, yawning heavily 
the while. 

‘You’ll find that wardrobe-case very much out 
of tune,’ Torpenhow said to the Nilghai. ‘ It’s never 
touched except by you.’ 

‘A piece of gross extravagance,’ Dick grunted. 
‘The Nilghai only comes when I’m out.’ 

‘ That’s because you’re always out. Howl, 
Nilghai, and let him hear.’ 

‘ The life of the Nilghai is fraud and slaughter, 

His writings are watered Dickens and water ; 

But the voice of the Nilghai raised on high 
Makes even the Mahdieh glad to die ! ’ 

Dick quoted from Torpenhow’s letterpress in the 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


159 


Nungapunga Book. ‘How do they call moose in 
Canada, Nilghai?’ 

The man laughed. Singing was his one polite 
accomplishment, as many Press-tents in far-off lands 
had known. 

‘What shall I sing?’ said he, turning in the 
chair. 

‘ “ Moll Roe in the Morning,” ’ said Torpenhow, at 
a venture. 

‘No,’ said Dick, sharply, and the Nilghai opened 
his eyes. The old chanty whereof he, among a very 
few, possessed all the words was not a pretty one, 
but Dick had heard it many times before without 
wincing. Without prelude he launched into that 
stately tune that calls together and troubles the 
hearts of the gipsies of the sea — 

< Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, 

Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.’ 

Dick turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could hear 
the bows of the Barralong crashing into the green 
seas on her way to the Southern Cross. Then came 
the chorus — 

< We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors, 

We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas, 

Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England 
From Ushant to Scilly ’tis forty-five leagues.’ 


160 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Thirty -five — thirty-five,’ said Dick, petulantly. 
‘Don’t tamper with Holy Writ. Go on, Nilghai.’ 

‘ The first land we made it was called the Deadman,’ 

and they sang to the end very vigorously. 

‘ That would be a better song if her head were 
turned the other way — to the Ushant light, for 
instance,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘Flinging its arms about like a mad windmill,’ 
said Torpenhow. ‘Give us something else, Nilghai. 
You’re in fine fog-horn form to-night.’ 

‘ Give us the “ Ganges Pilot ” : you sang that in 
the square the night before El-Maghrib. By the 
way, I wonder how many of the chorus are alive 
to-night,’ said Dick. 

Torpenhow considered for a minute. ‘ By Jove ! 
I believe only you and I. Raynor, Vickery, and 
Deenes — all dead ; Vincent caught smallpox in 
Cairo, carried it here and died of it. Yes, only you 
and I and the Nilghai.’ 

‘Umph! And yet the men here who’ve done 
their work in a well-warmed studio all their lives, 
with a policeman at each corner, say that I charge 
too much for my pictures.’ 

‘ They are buying your work, not your insurance 
policies, dear child,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘ I gambled with one to get at the other. Don’t 


VIII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 161 

preach. Go on with the “Pilot.” Where in the 
world did you get that song ? ’ 

4 On a tombstone,’ said the Nilghai. 4 On a tomb- 
stone in a distant land. I made it an accompani- 
ment with heaps of bass chords.’ 

4 Oh, Vanity ! Begin. ’ And the Nilghai began — 

‘ I have slipped my cable, messmates, I’m drifting down with 
the tide, 

I have my sailing orders, while ye at anchor ride. 

And never on fair June morning have I put out to sea 
With clearer conscience or better hope, or a heart more light 
and free. 

‘Shoulder to shoulder, Joe, my boy, into the crowd like a 
wedge 

Strike with the hangers, messmates, but do not cut with the 
edge. 

Cries Charnock, “Scatter the faggots, double that Brahmin 
in two, 

The tall pale widow for me, Joe, the little brown girl for you! ” 

‘Young Joe (you’re nearing sixty), why is your hide so dark? 
Katie has soft fair blue eyes, who blackened yours? — Why, 
hark ! ’ 

They were all singing now, Dick with the roar 
of the wind of the open sea about , his ears as the 
deep bass voice let itself go. 

‘ The morning gun — Ho, steady ! the arquebuses to me ! 

I ha’ sounded the Dutch High Admiral’s heart as my lead doth 
sound the sea. 


M 


CHAP. 


162 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 

‘ Sounding, sounding the Ganges, floating down with the 
tide, 

Moor me close to Charnock, next to my nut-brown bride. 

My blessing to Kate at Fairlight — Holwell, my thanks to you; 
Steady 1 .We steer for heaven, through sand-drifts cold and 
blue.’ 

‘Now what is there in that nonsense to make a 
man restless?’ said Dick, hauling Binkie from his 
feet to his chest. 

‘ It depends on the man,’ said Torpenhow. 

‘ The man who has been down to look at the sea,’ 
said the Nilghai. 

‘ I didn’t know she was going to upset me in this 
fashion.’ 

‘ That’s what men say when they go to say good- 
bye to a woman. It’s more easy though to get 
rid of three women than a piece of one’s life and 
surroundings.’ 

‘But a woman can be ’ began Dick, un- 

guardedly. 

‘A piece of one’s life,’ continued Torpenhow. 
‘No, she can’t.’ His face darkened for a moment. 
‘ She says she wants to sympathise with you and 
help you in your work, and everything else that 
clearly a man must do for himself. Then she sends 
round five notes a day to ask why the dickens you 
haven’t been wasting your time with her.’ 

‘Don’t generalise,’ said the Nilghai. ‘By the 


vm 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


163 


time you arrive at five notes a day you must have 
gone through a good deal and behaved accordingly. 
Shouldn’t begin these things, my son.’ 

‘I shouldn’t have gone down to the sea,’ said 
Dick, just a little anxious to change the conversation. 
4 And you shouldn’t have sung.’ 

4 The sea isn’t sending you five notes a day,’ said 
the Nilghai. 

4 No, but I’m fatally compromised. She’s an 
enduring old hag, and I’m sorry I ever met her. 
Why wasn’t I born and bred and dead in a three- 
pair back?’ 

4 Hear him blaspheming his first love ! Why 
in the world shouldn’t you listen to her ? ’ said 
Torpenhow. 

Before Dick could reply the Nilghai lifted up his 
voice with a shout that shook the windows, in 4 The 
Men of the Sea,’ that begins, as all know, 4 The sea 
is a wicked old woman,’ and after racing through 
eight lines whose imagery is truthful, ends in a 
refrain, slow as the clacking of a capstan when the 
boat comes unwillingly up to the bars where the 
men sweat and tramp in the shingle. 

‘ “ Ye that bore us, O restore us ! 

She is kinder than ye ; 

For the call is on our heart-strings ! ” 

Said The Men of the Sea.’ 


164 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


The Nilghai sang that verse twice, with simple 
cunning, intending that Dick should hear. But Dick 
was waiting for the farewell of the men to their wives. 

‘ “ Ye that love us, can ye move us ? 

She is dearer than ye ; 

And your sleep will be the sweeter,” 

Said The Men of the Sea.’ 

The rough words beat like the blows of the 
waves on the bows of the rickety boat from Lima 
in the days when Dick was mixing paints, making 
love, drawing devils and angels in the half dark, 
and wondering whether the next minute would put 
the Italian captain’s knife between his shoulder- 
blades. And the go-fever which is more real than 
many doctors’ diseases, waked and raged, urging him 
who loved Maisie beyond anything in the world, 
to go away and taste the old hot, unregenerate life 
again, — to scuffle, swear, gamble, and love light loves 
with his fellows ; to take ship and know the sea 
once more, and by her beget pictures ; to talk to 
Binat among the sands of Port Said while Yellow ’Tina 
mixed the drinks ; to hear the crackle of musketry, 
and see the smoke roll outward, thin and thicken 
again till the shining black faces came through, and in 
that hell every man was strictly responsible for his own 
head, and his own alone, and struck with an unfettered 
arm. It w> impossible, utterly impossible, but — 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


165 


‘ “ Oh, our fathers, in the churchyard, 

She is older than ye, ' 

And our graves will be the greener,” 

Said The Men of the Sea.’ 

‘What is there to hinder?’ said Torpenhow, in 
the long hush that followed the song. 

‘Yon said a little time since that you wouldn’t 
come for a walk round the world, Torp.’ 

‘That was months ago, and I only objected to 
your making money for travelling expenses. You’ve 
shot your bolt here and it has gone home. Go 
away and do some work, and see some things.’ 

‘ Get some of the fat off you ; you’re disgracefully 
out of condition,’ said the Nilghai, making a plunge 
from the chair and grasping a handful of Dick 
generally over the right ribs. ‘ Soft as putty — pure 
tallow born of over-feeding. Train it off, Dickie.’ 

‘We’re all equally gross, Nilghai. Next time 
you have to take the field you’ll sit down, wink your 
eyes, gasp, and die in a fit.’ 

‘Never mind. You go away on a ship. Go to 
Lima again, or to Brazil. There’s always trouble in 
South America.’ 

‘ Do you suppose I want to be told where to go ? 
Great Heavens, the only difficulty is to know where 
I’m to stop. But I shall stay here, as I told you 
before.’ 


166 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Then you’ll be buried in Kensal Green and turn 
into adipocere with the others,’ said Torpenhow. 
‘ Are you thinking of commissions in hand ? Pay 
forfeit and go. You’ve money enough to travel as 
a king if you please.’ 

‘You’ve the grisliest notions of amusement, Torp. 
I think I see myself shipping first class on a six- 
thousand-ton hotel, and asking the third engineer 
what makes the engines go round, and whether it 
isn’t very warm in the stokehold. Ho ! ho ! I 
should ship as a loafer if ever I shipped at all, which 
I’m not going to do. I shall compromise, and go 
for a small trip to begin with.’ 

‘ That’s something at any rate. Where will you 
go?’ said Torpenhow. ‘It would do you all the 
good in the world, old man.’ 

The Nilghai saw the twinkle in Dick’s eye, and 
refrained from speech. 

‘ I shall go in the first place to Rathray’s stable, 
where I shall hire one horse, and take him very 
carefully as far as Richmond Hill. Then I shall 
walk him back again, in case he should accidentally 
burst into a lather and make Rothray angry. I shall 
do that to-morrow, for the sake of air and exercise.’ 

‘ Bah ! ’ Dick had barely time to throw up his 
arm and ward off the cushion that the disgusted 
Torpenhow heaved at his head. 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


167 


4 Air and exercise indeed,’ said the Nilghai, sitting 
down heavily on Dick. 4 Let’s give him a little of 
both. Get the bellows, Torp.’ 

At this point the conference broke up in disorder, 
because Dick would not open his mouth till the 
Nilghai held his nose fast, and there was some 
trouble in forcing the nozzle of the bellows between 
his teeth; and even when it was there he weakly 
tried to puff against the force of the blast, and his 
cheeks blew up with a great explosion ; and the enemy 
becoming helpless with laughter he so beat them 
over the head with a soft sofa cushion that that 
became unsewn and distributed its feathers, and 
Binkie, interfering in Torpenhow’s interests, was 
bundled into the half-empty bag and advised to 
scratch his way out, which he did after a while, 
travelling rapidly up and down the floor in the shape 
of an agitated green haggis, and when he came out 
looking for satisfaction, the three pillars of his world 
were picking feathers out of their hair. 

4 A prophet has no honour in his own country,’ 
said Dick, ruefully, dusting his knees. 4 This filthy 
fluff will never brush off my bags.’ 

4 It was all for your good,’ said the Nilghai. 
‘Nothing like air and exercise.’ 

4 All for your good,’ said Torpenhow, not in the 
least with reference to past clowning. 4 It would let 


168 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


you focus things at their proper worth and prevent 
your becoming slack in this hothouse of a town. 
Indeed it would, old man. I shouldn’t have spoken 
if I hadn’t thought so. Only, you make a joke of 
everything.’ 

‘Before God I do no such thing,’ said Dick, 
quickly and earnestly. ‘ You don’t know me if 
you think that.’ 

‘ I don’t think it,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘ How can fellows like ourselves, who know 
what life and death really mean, dare to make 
a joke of anything? I know we pretend it, to 
save ourselves from breaking down or going to the 
other extreme. Can’t I see, old man, how you’re 
always anxious about me, and try to advise me to 
make my work better ? Do you suppose I don’t 
think about that myself? But you can’t help me 
— you can’t help me — not even you. I must play 
my own hand alone in my own way.’ 

‘ Hear, hear,’ from the Nilghai. 

‘What’s the one thing in the Nilghai Saga that 
I’ve never drawn in the Nungapunga Book ? ’ Dick 
continued to Torpenhow, who was a little aston- 
ished at the outburst. 

Now there was one blank page in the book given 
over to the sketch that Dick had not drawn of the 
crowning exploit in the Nilghai’s life ; when that 


VIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


169 


man, being young and forgetting that his body and 
bones belonged to the paper that employed him, 
had ridden over sunburned slippery grass in the 
rear of Bredow’s brigade on the day that the 
troopers flung themselves at Canrobert’s artillery, 
and for aught they knew twenty battalions in front, 
to save the battered 24th German Infantry, to give 
time to decide the fate of Vionville, and to learn ere 
their remnant came back to Flavigay that cavalry 
can attack and crumple and break unshaken in- 
fantry. Whenever he was inclined to think over 
a life that might have been better, an income that 
might have been larger, and a soul that might have 
been considerably cleaner, the Nilghai would comfort 
himself with the thought, ‘ I rode with Bredow’s 
brigade at Vionville,’ and take heart for any lesser 
battle the next day might bring. 

‘I know,’ he said very gravely. ‘I was always 
glad that you left it out.* 5 

‘I left it out because Nilghai taught me what the 
German army learned then, and what Schmidt taught 
their cavalry. I don’t know German. What is it ? 
“ Take care of the time and the dressing will take 
care of itself.” I must ri(|e my own line to my 
own beat, old man.’ 

4 Tempo ist richtung. You’ve learned your lesson 
well,’ said the Nilghai. ‘He must go alone. He 
speaks truth, Torp.’ 


170 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ Maybe I’m as wrong as I can be — hideously 
wrong. I must find that out for myself, as I have 
to think things out for myself, but I daren’t turn 
my head to dress by the next man. It hurts me a 
great deal more than you know not to be able to 
go, but I cannot, that’s all. I must do my own 
work and live my own life in my own way, because 
I’m responsible for both. Only don’t think I frivol 
about it, Torp. I have my own matches and 
sulphur, and I’ll make my own hell, thanks.’ 

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Tor- 
penhow said blandly, 4 What did the Governor of 
North Carolina say to the Governor of South 
Carolina ? ’ 

‘Excellent notion. It is a long time between 
drinks. There are the makings of a very fine prig 
in you, Dick,’ said the Nilghai. 

4 I’ve liberated my mind, estimable Binkie, with 
the feathers in his mouth.’ Dick picked up the 
still indignant one and shook him tenderly. 4 You’re 
tied up in a sack and made to run about blind, 
Binkie-wee, without any reason, and it has hurt 
your little feelings. Never mind. Sic volo , sic jubeo, 
stet pro ratione voluntas , and don’t sneeze in my eye 
because I talk Latin. Good-night.’ 

He went out of the room. 

4 That’s distinctly one for you,’ said the Nilghai. 


VIII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 171 

6 1 told you it was hopeless to meddle with him. 
He’s not pleased.’ 

4 He’d swear at me if he weren’t. I can’t make 
it out. He has the go-fever upon him and he 
won’t go. I only hope that he mayn’t have to go 
some day when he doesn’t want to,’ said Torpenhow. 
* * * * * * 

In his own room Dick was settling a question 
with himself — and the question was whether all 
the world, and all that was therein, and a burning 
desire to exploit both, was worth one threepenny 
piece thrown into the Thames. 

‘It came of seeing the sea, and I’m a cur to 
think about it,’ he decided. ‘ After all, the honey- 
moon will be that tour — - with reservations ; only 
. . . only I didn’t realise that the sea was so 
strong. I didn’t feel it so much when I was 
with Maisie. These damnable songs did it. He’s 
beginning again.’ 

But it was only Herrick’s Nightpiece to Julia 
that the Nilghai sang, and before it was ended Dick 
reappeared on the threshold, not altogether clothed 
indeed, but in his right mind, thirsty and at peace. 

The mood had come and gone with the rising 
and the falling of the tide by Fort Keeling. 


CHAPTER IX 


‘ If I have taken the common clay 
And wrought it cunningly 
In the shape of a god that was digged a clod, 

The greater honour to me.’ 

‘ If thou hast taken the common clay, 

And thy hands be not free 
From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil 
The greater shame to thee.’ — The Two Potters. 

He did no work of any kind for the rest of the 
week. Then came another Sunday. He dreaded 
and longed for the day always, but since the red- 
haired girl had sketched him there was rather more 
dread than desire in his mind. 

He found that Maisie had entirely neglected his 
suggestions about line-work. She had gone off at 
score filled with some absurd notion for a ‘fancy 
head.’ It cost Dick something to command his 
temper. 

‘ What’s the good of suggesting anything ? ’ he 
said pointedly. 

‘ Ah, but this will be a picture, — a real picture ; 

172 


chap, ix THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 173 

and I know that Kami will let me send it to the 
Salon. You don’t mind, do you ? ’ 

‘ I suppose not. But you won’t have time for 
the Salon.’ 

Maisie hesitated a little. She even felt uncom- 
fortable. 

‘We’re going over to France a month sooner 
because of it. I shall get the idea sketched out 
here and work it up at Kami’s.’ 

Dick’s heart stood still, and he came very near 
to being disgusted with his queen who could do no 
wrong. ‘Just when I thought I had made some 
headway, she goes off chasing butterflies. It’s too 
maddening ! ’ 

There was no possibility of arguing, for the red- 
haired girl was in the studio. Dick could only 
look unutterable reproach. 

‘ I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘ and I think you make 
a mistake. But what’s the idea of your new 
picture ? ’ 

‘I took it from a book.’ 

‘ That’s bad, to begin with. Books aren’t the 
places for pictures. And ’ 

‘It’s this,’ said the red-haired girl behind him. 
‘ I was reading it to Maisie the other day from 
The City of Dreadful Night . D’you know the 
book ? ’ 


1T4 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are pic- 
tures in it. What has taken her fancy? ’ 

‘The description of the Melancolia — * 

‘ Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle, 

But all too impotent to lift the regal 
Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride. 

And here again. (Maisie, get the tea, dear.) 

‘ The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams, 
The household bunch of keys, the housewife’s gown, 
Voluminous indented, and yet rigid 
As though a shell of burnished metal frigid, 

Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down.’ 

There was no attempt to conceal the scorn of the 
lazy voice. Dick winced. 

‘ But that has been done already by an obscure 
artist by the name of Diirer,’ said he. ‘How does 
the poem run ? — 

‘ Three centuries and threescore years ago, 

With phantasies of his peculiar thought. 

You might as well try to rewrite Hamlet. It will 
be waste of time.’ 

‘No, it won’t,’ said Maisie, putting down the 
teacups with a clatter to reassure herself. ‘And I 
mean to do it. Can’t you see what a beautiful 
thing it would make?’ 

‘How in perdition can one do work when one 



# 


\ 


THE TIRED MODEL 




















































































































































IX 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


175 


hasn’t had the proper training? Any fool can get 
a notion. It needs training to drive the thing 
through, — training and conviction ; not rushing 
after the first fancy.’ Dick spoke between his teeth. 

4 You don’t understand,’ said Maisie. 4 1 think I 
can do it.’ 

Again the voice of the girl behind him — 

4 Baffled and beaten back, she works on still ; 

Weary and sick of soul, she works the more. 

Sustained by her indomitable will, 

The hands shall fashion, and the brain shall pore, 

And all her sorrow shall be turned to labour 

I fancy Maisie means to embody herself in the 
picture.’ 

‘Sitting on a throne of rejected pictures? No, 
I shan’t, dear. The notion in itself has fascinated 
me. — Of course you don’t care for fancy heads, 
Dick. I don’t think you could do them. You like 
blood and bones.’ 

‘That’s a direct challenge. If you can do a 
Melancolia that isn’t merely a sorrowful female 
head, I can do a better one ;■ and I will, too. What 
d’you know about Melancolias? ’ Dick firmly be- 
lieved that he was even then tasting three-quarters 
of all the sorrow in the world. 

4 She was a woman,’ said Maisie, 4 and she suffered 
a great deal, — till she could suffer no more. Then 


176 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


she began to laugh at it all, and then I painted her 
and sent her to the Salon.’ 

The red-haired girl rose up and left the room, 
laughing. 

Dick looked at Maisie humbly and hopelessly. 

4 Never mind about the picture,’ he said. 4 Are 
you really going back to Kami’s a month before 
your time ? ’ 

‘I must, if I want to get the picture done.’ 

4 And that’s all you want ? ’ 

4 Of course. Don’t be stupid, Dick.’ 

‘You haven’t the power. You have only the 
ideas — the ideas and the little cheap impulses. 
How you could have kept at your work for ten 
years steadily is a mystery to me. So you are 
really going, — a month before you need ? ’ 

4 1 must do my work.’ 

4 Your work — bah! . . . No, I didn’t mean that. 
It’s all right, dear. Of course you must do your 
work, and — I think I’ll say good-bye for this week.’ 

4 W on’t you even stay for tea ? ’ 

4 No, thank you. Have I your leave to go, dear? 
There’s nothing more you particularly want me to 
do, and the line-work doesn’t matter.’ 

4 1 wish you could stay, and then we could talk 
over my picture. If only one single picture’s a 
success, it draws attention to all the others. I know 


IX THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 177 

some of my work is good, if only people could see. 
And you needn’t have been so rude about it.’ 

‘I’m sorry. We’ll talk the Melancolia over 
some one of the other Sundays. There are four 
more — yes, one, two, three, four — before you go. 
Good-bye, Maisie.’ 

Maisie stood by the studio window, thinking, 
till the red-haired girl returned, a little white at 
the corners of her lips. 

‘Dick’s gone off,’ said Maisie. 4 Just when I 
wanted to talk about the picture. Isn’t it selfish 
of him?’ 

Her companion opened her lips as if to speak, 
shut them again, and went on reading The City of 
Dreadful Night. 

Dick was in the Park, walking round and round 
a tree that he had chosen as his confidante for many 
Sundays past. He was swearing audibly, and when 
he found that the infirmities of the English tongue 
hemmed in his rage, he sought consolation in Arabic, 
which is expressly designed for the use of the 
afflicted. He was not pleased with the reward 
of his patient service ; nor was he pleased with 
himself ; and it was long before he arrived at the 
proposition that the queen could do no wrong. 

4 It’s a losing game,’ he said. 4 I’m worth nothing 
when a whim of hers is in question. But in a 

N 


178 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


losing game at Port Said we used to double the 
stakes and go on. She do a Melancolia ! She 
hasn’t the power, or the insight, or the training. 
Only the desire. She’s cursed with the curse of 
Reuben. She won’t do line-work, because it means 
real work ; and yet she’s stronger than I am. I’ll 
make her understand that I can beat her on her 
own Melancolia. Even then she wouldn’t care. 
She says I can only do blood and bones. I don’t 
believe she has blood in her veins. All the same 
I love her ; and I must go on loving her ; and if I 
can humble her inordinate vanity I will. I’ll do a 
Melancolia that shall be something like a Melan- 
colia — “the Melancolia that transcends all wit.” 
I’ll do it at once, con — - bless her. ’ 

He discovered that the notion would not come 
to order, and that he could not free his mind for an 
hour from the thought of Maisie’s departure. He 
took very small interest in her rough studies for the 
Melancolia when she showed them next week. The 
Sundays were racing past, and the time was at hand 
when all the church bells in London could not ring 
Maisie back to him. Once or twice he said some- 
thing to Binkie about 4 hermaphroditic futilities,’ but 
the little dog received so many confidences both from 
Torpenhow and Dick that he did not trouble his 
tulip-ears to listen. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


179 


IX 


Dick was permitted to see the girls off. They 
were going by the Dover night-boat ; and they 
hoped to return in August. It was then February, 
and Dick felt that he was being hardly used. Maisie 
was so busy stripping the small house across the 
Park, and packing her canvases, that she had no 
time for thought. Dick went down to Dover and 
wasted a day there fretting over a wonderful possi- 
bility. Would Maisie at the very last allow him 
one small kiss? He reflected that he might 
capture her by the strong arm, as he had seen 
women captured in the Southern Soudan, and lead 
her away ; but Maisie would never be led. She 
would turn her gray eyes upon him and say, ‘ Dick, 
how selfish you are ! ’ Then his courage would 
fail him. It would be better, after all, to beg for 
that kiss. 

Maisie looked more than usually kissable as she 
stepped from the night-mail on to the windy pier, in 
a gray waterproof and a little gray cloth travelling- 
cap. The red-haired girl was not so lovely. Her 
green eyes were hollow and her lips were dry. 
Dick saw the trunks aboard, and went to Maisie’s 
side in the darkness under the bridge. The mail- 
bags were thundering into the forehold, and the 
red-haired girl was watching them. 

‘You’ll have a rough passage to-night,’ said 


180 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Dick. ‘ It’s blowing outside. I suppose I may 
come over and see you if I’m good?’ 

4 You mustn’t. I shall be busy. At least, if I 
want you I’ll send for you. But I shall write from 
Vitry-sur-Marne. I shall have heaps of things to 
consult you about. Oh, Dick, you have been so 
good to me ! — so good to me ! ’ 

‘Thank you for that, dear. It hasn’t made any 
difference, has it ? ’ 

4 1 can’t tell a fib. ' It hasn’t — in that way. But 
don’t think I’m not grateful.’ 

4 Damn the gratitude ! ’ said Dick, huskily, to the 
paddle-box. 

4 What’s the use of worrying ? You know I should 
ruin your life, and you’d ruin mine, as things are 
now. You remember what you said when you 
were so angry that day in the Park ? One of us 
has to be broken. Can’t you wait till that day 
comes ? ’ 

4 No, love. I want you unbroken — all to 
myself.’ 

Maisie shook her head. 4 My poor Dick, what 
can I say ! ’ 

4 Don’t say anything. Give me a kiss. Only 
one kiss, Maisie. I’ll swear I won’t take any more. 
You might as well, and then I can be sure you’re 
grateful.’ 


IX 


,THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


181 


Maisie put her cheek forward, and Dick took 
his reward in the darkness. It was only one kiss, 
but, since there was no time-limit specified, it was 
a long one. Maisie wrenched herself free angrily, 
and Dick stood abashed and tingling from head to 
heel. 

4 Good-bye, darling. I didn’t mean to scare you. 
I’m sorry. Only — keep well and do good work, — 
specially the Melancolia. I’m going to do one, too. 
Remember me to Kami, and be careful what you 
drink. Country drinking-water is bad everywhere, 
but it’s worse in France. Write to me if you want 
anything, and good-bye. Say good-bye to the what- 
you-call-um girl, and — can’t I have another kiss? 
No. You’re quite right. Good-bye.’ 

A shout told him that it was not seemly to 
charge up the mail-bag incline. He reached the 
pier as the steamer began to move off, and he 
followed her with his heart. 

4 And there’s nothing — nothing in the wide 
world — to keep us apart except her obstinacy. 
These Calais night-boats are much too small. I’ll 
get Torp to write to the papers about it. She’s 
beginning to pitch already.’ 

Maisie stood where Dick had left her till she 
heard a little gasping cough at her elbow. The 
red-haired girl’s eyes were alight with cold flame. 


182 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 He kissed you ! ’ she said. 4 How could you 
let him, when he wasn’t anything to you? How 
dared you take a kiss from him ? Oh, Maisie, let’s 
go to the ladies’ cabin. I’m sick, — deadly sick.’ 

4 We aren’t into open water yet. Go down, 
dear, and I’ll stay here. I don’t like the smell of 
the engines. . . . Poor Dick ! He deserved one, 
— only one. But I didn’t think he’d frighten 
me so.’ 

Dick returned to town next day just in time 
for lunch, for which he had telegraphed. To his 
disgust, there were only empty plates in the studio. 
He lifted up his voice like the bears in the fairy-tale, 
and Torpenhow entered, looking guilty. 

4 H’sh ! ’ said he. 4 Don’t make such a noise. I 
took it. Come into my rooms, and I’ll show you 
why.’ 

Dick paused amazed at the threshold, for on 
Torpenhow’s sofa lay a girl asleep and breathing 
heavily. The little cheap sailor-hat, the blue-and- 
white dress, fitter for June than for February, dab- 
bled with mud at the skirts, the jacket trimmed 
with imitation Astrakhan and ripped at the shoulder- 
seams, the one-and-elevenpenny umbrella, and, above 
all, the disgraceful condition of the kid-topped boots, 
declared all things. 

4 Oh, I say, old man, this is too bad! You 


IT 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


183 


mustn’t bring this sort up here. They steal things 
from the rooms.’ 

4 It looks bad, I admit, but I was coming in after 
lunch, and she staggered into the hall. I thought 
she was drunk at first, but it was collapse. I 
couldn’t leave her as she was, so I brought her up 
here and gave her your lunch. She was fainting 
from want of food. She went fast asleep the minute 
she had finished.’ 

4 1 know something of that complaint. She’s 
been living on sausages, I suppose. Torp, you 
should have handed her over to a policeman for 
presuming to faint in a respectable house. Poor 
little wretch ! Look at that face ! There isn’t an 
ounce of immorality in it. Only folly, — slack, 
fatuous, feeble, futile folly. It’s a typical head. 
D’you notice how the skull begins to show through 
the flesh padding on the face and cheek-bone ? ’ 

4 What a cold-blooded barbarian it is ! Don’t 
hit a woman when she’s down. Can’t we do any- 
thing? She was simply dropping with starvation. 
She almost fell into my arms, and when she got to 
the food she ate like a wild beast. It was horrible.’ 

4 1 can give her money, which she would probably 
spend in drinks. Is she going to sleep for ever ? ’ 

The girl opened her eyes and glared at the men 
between terror and effrontery. 


184 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Feeling better ? ’ said Torpenhow. 

‘Yes. Thank yon. There aren’t many gentle- 
men that are as kind as you are. Thank you.’ 

‘When did you leave service?’ said Dick, who 
had been watching the scarred and chapped hands. 

‘How did you know I was in service? I was. 
General servant. I didn’t like it.’ 

‘ And how do you like being your own mistress ? ’ 

‘ Do I look as if I liked it ? ’ 

‘I suppose not. One moment. Would you be 
good enough to turn your face to the window ? ’ 

The girl obeyed, and Dick watched her face 
keenly, — so keenly that she made as if to hide 
behind Torpenhow. 

‘The eyes have it,’ said Dick, walking up and 
down. ‘They are superb eyes for my business. 
And, after all, every head depends on the eyes. 
This has been sent from heaven to make up for — 
what was taken away. Now the weekly strain’s off 
my shoulders, I can get to work in earnest. Evi- 
dently sent from heaven. Yes. Raise your chin a 
little, please.’ 

‘ Gently, old man, gently. You’re scaring some- 
body out of her wits,’ said Torpenhow, who could 
see the girl trembling. 

‘ Don’t let him hit me ! Oh, please don’t let 
him hit me ! I’ve been hit cruel to-day because I 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


185 


rx 

spoke to a man. Don’t let him look at me like 
that ! He’s reg’lar wicked, that one. Don’t let 
him look at me like that, neither ! Oh, I feel as 
if I hadn’t nothing on when he looks at me like 
that ! ’ 

The overstrained nerves in the frail body gave 
way, and the girl wept like a little child and began 
to scream. Dick threw open the window, and 
Torpenhow flung the door back. 

‘There you are,’ said Dick, soothingly. ‘My 
friend here can call for a policeman, and you can 
run through that door. Nobody is going to hurt 
you.’ 

The girl sobbed convulsively for a few minutes, 
and then tried to laugh. 

‘Nothing in the world to hurt you. Now listen 
to me for a minute. I’m what they call an artist 
by profession. You know what artists do ? ’ 

‘They draw the things in red and black ink on 
the pop-shop labels.’ 

‘ I dare say. I haven’t risen to pop-shop labels 
yet. Those are done by the Academicians. I want 
to draw your head.’ 

‘ What for ? ’ 

‘ Because it’s pretty. That is why you will come 
to the room across the landing three times a week 
at eleven in the morning, and I’ll give you three 


186 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


quid a week just for sitting still and being drawn. 
And there’s a quid on account.’ 

‘ For nothing ? Oh, my ! ’ The girl turned the 
sovereign in her hand, and with more foolish tears, 
‘Ain’t neither o’ you two gentlemen afraid of my 
bilking you ? ’ 

‘No. Only ugly girls do that. Try and re- 
member this place. And, by the way, what’s your 
name ? ’ 

‘I’m Bessie, — Bessie It’s no use giving 

the rest. Bessie Broke, — Stone-broke, if you like. 
What’s your names ? But there, — no one ever 
gives the real ones.’ 

Dick consulted Torpenhow with his eyes. 

‘ My name’s Heldar, and my friend’s called 
Torpenhow ; and you must be sure to come here. 
Where do you live ? ’ 

‘ South-the-water, — one room, — five and sixpence 
a week. Aren’t you making fun of me about that 
three quid ? ’ 

‘You’ll see later on. And, Bessie, next time 
you come, remember, you needn’t wear that paint. 
It’s bad for the skin, and I have all the colours 
you’ll be likely to need.’ 

Bessie withdrew, scrubbing her cheek with a 
ragged pocket-handkerchief. The two men looked 
at each other. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


187 


IX 


4 You’re a man,’ said Torpenliow. 

4 I’m afraid I’ve been a fool. It isn’t our business 
to run about the earth reforming Bessie Brokes. 
And a woman of any kind has no right on this 
landing.’ 

4 Perhaps she won’t come back.’ 

4 She will if she thinks she can get food and 
warmth here. I know she will, worse luck. But 
remember, old man, she isn’t a woman : she’s my 
model ; and be careful.’ 

4 The idea ! She’s a dissolute little scarecrow, — 
a gutter-snippet and nothing more.’ 

4 So you think. Wait till she has been fed a little 
and freed from fear. That fair type recovers itself 
very quickly. You won’t know her in a week 
or two, when that abject fear has died out of her 
eyes. She’ll be too happy and smiling for my 
purposes.’ 

‘But surely you’re taking her out of charity? — 
to please me ? ’ 

4 1 am not in the habit of playing with hot coals 
to please anybody. She has been sent from heaven, 
as I may have remarked before, to help me with my 
Melancolia. ’ 

‘Never heard a word about the lady before.’ 

4 What’s the use of having a friend, if you must 
sling your notions at him in words ? You ought to 


188 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


know what I’m thinking about. You’ve heard me 
grunt lately ? ’ 

4 Even so ; but grunts mean anything in your 
language, from bad ’baccy to wicked dealers. And 
I don’t think I’ve been much in your confidence for 
some time.’ 

4 It was a high and soulful grunt. You ought to 
have understood that it meant the Melancolia.’ 
Dick walked Torpenhow up and down the room, 
keeping silence. Then he smote him in the ribs. 
4 Now don’t you see it? Bessie’s abject futility, and 
the terror in her eyes, welded on to one or two 
details in the way of sorrow that have come under 
my experience lately. Likewise some orange and 
black, — two keys of each. But I can’t explain on 
an empty stomach.’ 

4 It sounds mad enough. You’d better stick to 
your soldiers, Dick, instead of maundering about 
heads and eyes and experiences.’ 

4 Think so?’ Dick began to dance on his heels, 
singing — 

‘They’re as proud as a turkey when they hold the ready 
cash, 

You ought to ’ear the way they laugh an’ joke; 

They are tricky an’ they’re funny when they’ve got the ready 
money, — 

Ow ! but see ’em when they’re all stone-broke.’ 


IX 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


189 


Then he sat down to pour out his heart to Maisie 
in a four-sheet letter of counsel and encouragement, 
and registered an oath that he would get to work 
with an undivided heart as soon as Bessie should 
reappear. 

The girl kept her appointment unpainted and 
unadorned, afraid and overbold by turns. When 
she found that she was merely expected to sit still, 
she grew calmer, and criticised the appointments of 
the studio with freedom and some point. She liked 
the warmth and the comfort and the release from 
fear of physical pain. Dick made two or three 
studies of her head in monochrome, but the actual 
notion of the Melancolia would not arrive. 

‘ What a mess you keep your things in ! ’ said 
Bessie, some days later, when she felt herself thor- 
oughly at home. 4 I s’pose your clothes are just 
as bad. Gentlemen never think what buttons and 
tape are made for.’ 

‘ I buy things to wear, and wear ’em till they go 
to pieces. I don’t know what Torpenhow does.’ 

Bessie made diligent inquiry in the latter’s room, 
and unearthed a bale of disreputable socks. 4 Some 
of these I’ll mend now,’ she said, ‘and some I’ll 
take home. D’you know, I sit all day long at home 
doing nothing, just like a lady, and no more 
noticing them other girls in the house than if they 


190 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


was so many flies. I don’t have any unnecessary 
words, but I put ’em down quick, I can tell you, 
when they talk to me. No ; it’s quite nice these 
days. I lock my door, and they can only call me 
names through the keyhole, and I sit inside, just like 
a lady, mending socks. Mr. Torpenhow wears his 
socks out both ends at once.’ 

‘Three quid a week from me, and the delights 
of my society. No socks mended. Nothing from 
Torp except a nod on the landing now and again, 
and all his socks mended. Bessie is very much a 
woman,’ thought Dick ; and he looked at her 
between half-shut eyes. Food and rest had trans- 
formed the girl, as Dick knew they would. 

‘ What are you looking at me like that for ? ’ she 
said quickly. 4 Don’t. You look reg’lar bad when 
you look that way. You don’t think much o’ me, 
do you ? ’ 

4 That depends on how you behave.’ 

Bessie behaved beautifully. Only it was difficult 
at the end of a sitting to bid her go out into the 
gray streets. She very much preferred the studio 
and a big chair by the stove, with some socks in her 
lap as an excuse for delay. Then Torpenhow would 
come in, and Bessie would be moved to tell strange 
and wonderful stories of her past, and still stranger 
ones of her present improved circumstances. She 


IX 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


191 


would make them tea as though she had a right to 
make it ; and once or twice on these occasions Dick 
caught Torpenhow’s eyes fixed on the trim little 
figure, and because Bessie’s Sittings about the room 
made Dick ardently long for Maisie, he realised 
whither Torpenhow’s thoughts were tending. And 
Bessie was exceedingly careful of the condition 
of Torpenhow’s linen. She spoke very little to 
him, but sometimes they talked together on the 
landing. 

4 1 was a great fool,’ Dick said to himself. ‘I 
know what red firelight looks like when a man’s 
tramping through a strange town ; and ours is a 
lonely, selfish sort of life at the best. I wonder 
Maisie doesn’t feel that sometimes. But I can’t 
order Bessie away. That’s the worst of beginning 
things. One never knows where they stop.’ 

One evening, after a sitting prolonged to the last 
limit of the light, Dick was roused from a nap by a 
broken voice in Torpenhow’s room. He jumped to 
his feet. ‘Now what ought I to do? It looks 
foolish to go in. — Oh, bless you, Binkie ! ’ The 
little terrier thrust Torpenhow’s door open with his 
nose and came out to take possession of Dick’s 
chair. The door swung wide unheeded, and Dick , 
across the landing could see Bessie in the half- 
light making her little supplication to Torpenhow. 


192 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


She was kneeling by his side, and her hands were 
clasped across his knee. 

4 I know, — I know,’ she said thickly. 4 ’Tisn’t 
right o’ me to do this, but I can’t help it ; and you 
were so kind, — so kind ; and you never took any 
notice o’ me. And I’ve mended all your things so 
carefully, — I did. Oh, please, ’tisn’t as if I was 
asking you to marry me. I wouldn’t think of it. 
But cou — couldn’t you take and live with me till 
Miss Right comes along? I’m only Miss Wrong, I 
know, but I’d work my hands to the bare bone for 
you. And I’m not ugly to look at. Say you 
will ! ’ 

Dick hardly recognised Torpenhow’s voice in 
reply — 

‘But look here. It’s no use. I’m liable to be 
ordered off anywhere at a minute’s notice if a war 
breaks out. At a minute’s notice — dear.’ 

4 What does that matter ? Until you go, then. 
Until you go. ’Tisn’t much I’m asking, and — you 
don’t know how good I can cook.’ She had put an 
arm round his neck and was drawing his head 
down. 

4 Until — I — go, then.’ 

4 Torp,’ said Dick, across the landing. He could 
hardly steady his voice. 4 Come here a minute, old 
man. I’m in trouble.’ — 4 Heaven send he’ll listen 


IX 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


193 


to me ! ’ There was something very like an oath 
from Bessie’s lips. She was afraid of Dick, and dis- 
appeared down the staircase in panic, but it seemed 
an age before Torpenhow entered the studio. He 
went to the mantelpiece, buried his head on his 
arms, and groaned like a wounded bull. 

4 What the devil right have you to interfere ? ’ he 
said, at last. 

4 Who’s interfering with which? Your own sense 
told you long ago you couldn’t be such a fool. It was 
a tough rack, St. Anthony, but you’re all right now.’ 

4 1 oughtn’t to have seen her moving about 
these rooms as if they belonged to her. That’s 
what upset me. It gives a lonely man a sort of 
hankering, doesn’t it?’ said Torpenhow, piteously. 

‘Now you talk sense. It does. But, since you 
aren’t in a condition to discuss the disadvantages 
of double housekeeping, do you know what you’re 
going to do ? ’ 

4 1 don’t. I wish I did.’ 

4 You’re going away for a season on a brilliant 
tour to regain tone. You’re going to Brighton, or 
Scarborough, or Prawle Point, to see the ships go 
by. And you’re going at once. Isn’t it odd? I’ll 
take care of Binkie, but out you go immediately. 
Never resist the devil. He holds the bank. Fly 
from him. Pack your things and go.’ 


194 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. IX 


‘ I believe you’re right. Where shall I go ? ’ 

‘ And you call yourself a special correspondent ! 
Pack first and inquire afterwards.’ 

An hour later Torpenhow was despatched into 
the night in a hansom. ‘ You’ll probably think of 
some place to go to while you’re moving,’ said Dick. 
‘ Go to Euston, to begin with, and — oh yes — get 
drunk to-night.’ 

He returned to the studio, and lighted more 
candles, for he found the room very dark. 

‘Oh, you Jezebel! you futile little Jezebel! 
Won’t you hate me to-morrow ! — Binkie, come here.’ 

Binkie turned over on his back on the hearth- 
rug, and Dick stirred him with a meditative foot. 

‘ I said she was not immoral. I was wrong. 
She said she could cook. That showed premeditated 
sin. Oh, Binkie, if you are a man you will go to 
perdition ; but if you are a woman, and say that you 
can cook, you will go to a much worse place,’ 


CHAPTER X 

What’s yon that follows at my side? — 

The foe that ye must fight, my lord. — 

That hirples swift as I can ride? — 

The shadow of the night, my lord. — 

Then wheel my horse against the foe l — 

He’s down and overpast, my lord. 

Ye war against the sunset glow : 

The darkness gathers fast, my lord. 

— The Fight of H evict's Ford. 

‘This is a cheerful life,’ said Dick, some days later. 
‘Torp’s away; Bessie hates me; I can’t get at 
the notion of the Melancolia ; Maisie’s letters are 
scrappy; and I believe I have indigestion. What 
gives a man pains across his head and spots be- 
fore his eyes, Binlde? Shall us take some liver 
pills?’ 

Dick had just gone through a lively scene with 
Bessie. She had for the fiftieth time reproached 
him for sending Torpenhow away. She explained 
her enduring hatred for Dick, and made it clear to 
him that she only sat for the sake of his money. 

195 


196 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 And Mr. Torpenhow’s ten times a better man than 
you,’ she concluded. 

4 He is. That’s why he went away. I should 
have stayed and made love to you.’ 

The girl sat with her chin on her hand, scowling. 
4 To me ! I’d like to catch you ! If I wasn’t afraid 
o’ being hung I’d kill you. That’s what I’d do. 
D’you believe me? ’ 

Dick smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to live 
in the company of a notion that will not work out, 
a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a woman who 
talks too much. He would have answered, but at 
that moment there unrolled itself from one corner 
of the studio a veil, as it were, of the filmiest gauze. 
He rubbed his eyes, but the gray haze would not 
go. 

‘This is disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, we will 
go to a medicine-man. We can’t have our eyes 
interfered with, for by these we get our bread ; also 
mutton-chop bones for little dogs.’ 

The doctor was an affable local practitioner with 
white hair, and he said nothing till Dick began to 
describe the gray film in the studio. 

4 We all want a little patching and repairing from 
time to time,’ he chirped. ‘Like a ship, my dear 
sir, — exactly like a ship. Sometimes the hull is out 
of order, and we consult the surgeon ; sometimes the 


X 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


197 


rigging, and then I advise ; sometimes the engines, 
and we go to the brain-specialist ; sometimes the 
look-out on the bridge is tired, and then we see an 
oculist. I should recommend you to see an oculist. 
A little patching and repairing from time to time is 
all we want. An oculist, by all means.’ 

Dick sought an oculist, — the best iii London. 
He was certain that the local practitioner did not 
know anything about his trade, and more certain 
that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced 
to wear spectacles. 

4 I’ve neglected the warnings of my lord the 
stomach too long. Hence these spots before the 
eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could.’ 

As he entered the dark hall that led to the con- 
sulting-room a man cannoned against him. Dick 
saw the face as it hurried out into the street. 

4 That’s the writer-type. He has the same 
modelling of the forehead as Torp. He looks very 
sick. Probably heard something he didn’t like.’ 

Even as he thought, a great fear came upon Dick, 
a fear that made him hold his breath as he walked 
into the oculist’s waiting room, with the heavy 
carved furniture, the dark-green paper, and the 
sober-hued prints on the wall. He recognised a 
reproduction of one of his own sketches. 

Many people were waiting their turn before him. 


198 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


His eye was caught by a flaming red-and-gold 
Christmas-carol book. Little children came to that 
eye-doctor, and they needed large-type amusement. 

‘ That’s idolatrous bad Art,’ he said, drawing the 
book towards himself. ‘From the anatomy of the 
angels, it has been made in Germany.’ He opened 
it mechanically, and there leaped to his eyes a verse 
printed in red ink — 

The next good joy that Mary had, 

It was the joy of three, 

To see her good Son Jesus Christ 
Making the blind to see ; 

Making the blind to see, good Lord, 

And happy may we be. 

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost 
To all eternity ! 

Dick read and re-read the verse till his turn 
came, and the doctor was bending above him seated 
in an arm-chair. The blaze of the gas-microscope in 
his eyes made him wince. The doctor’s hand 
touched the scar of the sword-cut on Dick’s head, 
and Dick explained briefly how he had come by it. 
When the flame was removed, Dick saw the doctor’s 
face, and the fear came upon him again. The 
doctor wrapped himself in a mist of words. Dick 
caught allusions to ‘scar,’ ‘frontal bone,’ ‘optic 
nerve,’ ‘ extreme caution,’ and the ‘ avoidance of 
mental anxiety.’ 


X 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


199 


4 Verdict ? ’ he said faintly. 4 My business is 
painting, and I daren’t waste time. What do you 
make of it ? ’ 

Again the whirl of words, but this time they 
conveyed a meaning. 

4 Can you give me anything to drink ? ’ 

Many sentences were pronounced in that dark- 
ened room, and the prisoners often needed cheering. 
Dick found a glass of liqueur brandy in his hand. 

4 As far as I can gather,’ he said, coughing above 
the spirit, 4 you call it decay of the optic nerve, or 
something, and therefore hopeless. What is my 
time-limit, avoiding all strain and worry ? ’ 

4 Perhaps one year.’ 

4 My God ! And if I don’t take care of myself ? ’ 

4 1 really could not say. One cannot ascertain 
the exact amount of injury inflicted by the sword- 
cut. The scar is an old one, and — exposure to the 
strong light of the desert, did you say ? — with exces- 
sive application to fine work ? I really could not say.’ 

4 1 beg- your pardon, but it has come without 
any warning. If you will let me, I’ll sit here for 
a minute, and then I’ll go. You have been very 
good in telling me the truth. Without any 
warning ; without any warning. Thanks.’ 

Dick went into the street, and was rapturously 
received by Binkie. 4 We’ve got it very badly, 


200 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


little dog ! Just as badly as we can get it. We’ll 
go to the Park to think it out.’ 

They headed for a certain tree that Dick knew 
well, and they sat down to think, because his legs 
were trembling under him and there was cold fear 
at the pit of his stomach. 

4 How could it have come without any warning ? 
It’s as sudden as being shot. It’s the living death, 
Binkie. We’re to be shut up in the dark in one 
year if we’re careful, and we shan’t see anybody, 
and we shall never have anything we want, not 
though we live to be a hundred.’ Binkie wagged 
his tail joyously. 4 Binkie, we must think. Let’s 
see how it feels to be blind.’ Dick shut his eyes, 
and flaming commas and Catherine-wheels floated 
inside the lids. Yet when he looked across the 
Park the scope of his vision was not contracted. 
He could see perfectly, until a procession of slow- 
wheeling fireworks defiled across his eyeballs. 

4 Little dorglums, we aren’t at all well. Let’s go 
home. If only Torp were back, now ! ’ 

But Torpenhow was in the south of England, 
inspecting dockyards in the company of the Nilghai. 
His letters were brief and full of mystery. 

Dick had never asked anybody to help him in 
his joys or his sorrows. He argued, in the lone- 
liness of the studio, henceforward to be decorated 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


201 


with a film of gray gauze in one corner, that, if his 
fate were blindness, all the Torpenhows in the 
world could not save him. 4 1 can’t call him off his 
trip to sit down and sympathise with me. I must 
pull through the business alone,’ he said. He was 
lying on the sofa, eating his moustache and wonder- 
ing what the darkness of the night would be like. 
Then came to his mind the memory of a quaint 
scene in the Soudan. A soldier had been nearly 
hacked in two by a broad-bladed Arab spear. For 
one instant the man felt no pain. Looking down, 
he saw that his life-blood was going from him. 
The stupid bewilderment on his face was so intensely 
comic that both Dick and Torpenhow, still panting 
and unstrung from a fight for life, had roared with 
laughter, in which the man seemed as if he would 
join, but, as his lips parted in a sheepish grin, the 
agony of death came upon him, and he pitched 
grunting at their feet. Dick laughed again, 
remembering the horror. It seemed so exactly like 
his own case. 4 But I have a little more time 
allowed me,’ he said. He paced up and down the 
room, quietly at first, but afterwards with the 
hurried feet of fear. It was as though a black 
shadow stood at his elbow and urged him to go 
forward ; and there were only weaving circles and 
floating pin-dots before his eyes. 


202 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ W e must be calm, Binkie ; we must be calm.' 
He talked aloud for the sake of distraction. 4 This 
isn’t nice at all. What shall we do ? We must do 
something. Our time is short. I shouldn’t have 
believed that this morning ; but now things are 
different. Binkie, where was Moses when the light 
went out ? ’ 

Binkie smiled from ear to ear, as a well-bred 
terrier should, but made no suggestion. 

4 “ Were there but world enough and time, This 
coyness, Binkie, were no crime. . . . But at my 

back I always hear ”’ He wiped his forehead, 

which was unpleasantly damp. 4 What can I do ? 
What can I do? I haven’t any notions left, and 
I can’t think connectedly, but I must do something, 
or I shall go off my head.’ 

The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stopping 
every now and again to drag forth long-neglected 
canvases and old note-books ; for he turned to his 
work by instinct, as a thing that could not fail. 
4 You won’t do, and you won’t do,’ he said, at 
each inspection. 4 No more soldiers. I couldn’t 
paint ’em. Sudden death comes home too nearly, 
and this is battle and murder both for me.’ 

The day was failing, and Dick thought for a 
moment that the twilight of the blind had come 
upon him unawares. 4 Allah Almighty ! ’ he cried 


X 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


203 


despairingly, ‘ help me through the time of waiting, 
and I won’t whine when my punishment comes. 
What can I do now, before the light goes ? ’ 

There was no answer. Dick waited till he could 
regain some sort of control over himself. His hands 
were shaking, and he prided himself on their 
steadiness ; he could feel that his lips were quiver- 
ing, and the sweat was running down his face. He 
was lashed by fear, driven forward by the desire to 
get to work at once and accomplish something, and 
maddened by the refusal of his brain to do more 
than repeat the news that he was about to go blind. 
‘It’s a humiliating exhibition,’ he thought, ‘and I’m 
glad Torp isn’t here to see. The doctor said I was 
to avoid mental worry. Come here and let me pet 
you, Binkie.’ 

The little dog yelped because Dick nearly 
squeezed the bark out of him. Then he heard the 
man speaking in the twilight, and, doglike, under- 
stood that his trouble stood off from him — 

‘Allah is good, Binkie. Not quite so gentle as 
we could wish, but we’ll discuss that later. I think 
I see my way to it now. All those studies of 
Bessie’s head were nonsense, and they nearly 
brought your master into a scrape. I hold the 
notion now as clear as crystal, — “ the Melancolia 
that transcends all wit.” There shall be Maisie in 


204 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


that head, because I shall never get Maisie ; and 
Bess, of course, because she knows all about Melan- 
colia, though she doesn’t know she knows ; and 
there shall be some drawing in it, and it shall all 
end up with a laugh. That’s for myself. Shall 
she giggle or grin ? No, she shall laugh right out 
of the canvas, and every man and woman that ever 
had a sorrow of their own shall — what is it the 
poem says ? — 

‘ Understand the speech and feel a stir 
Of fellowship in all disastrous fight. 

“ In all disastrous fight ” ? That’s better than 
painting the thing merely to pique Maisie. I can 
do it now because I have it inside me. Binkie, I’m 
going to hold you up by your tail. You’re an 
omen. Come here.’ 

Binkie swung head downward for a moment 
without speaking. 

4 Rather like holding a guinea-pig ; but you’re a 
brave little dog, and you don’t yelp when you’re 
hung up. It is an omen.’ 

Binkie went to his own chair, and as often as he 
looked saw Dick walking up and down, rubbing his 
hands and chuckling. That night Dick wrote a 
letter to Maisie full of the tenderest regard for her 
health, but saying very little about his own, and 
dreamed of the Melancolia to be born. Not till 


X 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


205 


morning did he remember that something might 
happen to him in the future. 

He fell to work, whistling softly, and was 
swallowed up in the clean, clear joy of creation, 
which does not come to man too often, lest he 
should consider himself the equal of his God, and so 
refuse to die at the appointed time. He forgot 
Maisie, Torpenhow, and Binkie at his feet, but 
remembered to stir Bessie, who needed very little 
stirring, into a tremendous rage, that he might 
watch the smouldering lights in her eyes. He 
threw himself without reservation into his work, 
and did not think of the doom that was to overtake 
him, for he was possessed with his notion, and the 
things of this world had no power upon him. 

‘You’re pleased to-day,’ said Bessie. 

Dick waved his mahl-stick in mystic circles and 
went to the sideboard for a drink. In the evening, 
when the exaltation of the day had died down, he 
went to the sideboard again, and after some visits 
became convinced that the eye-doctor was a liar, 
since he could still see everything very clearly. 
He was of opinion that he would even make a home 
for Maisie, and that whether she liked it or not she 
should be his wife. The mood passed next morn- 
ing, but the sideboard and all upon it remained for 
his comfort. Again he set to work, and his eyes 


206 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


troubled him with spots and dashes and blurs till 
he had taken counsel with the sideboard, and the 
Melancolia both on the canvas and in his own 
mind appeared lovelier than ever. There was a 
delightful sense of irresponsibility upon him, such 
as they feel who walking among their fellow-men 
know that the death-sentence of disease is upon 
them, and, seeing that fear is but waste of the little 
time left, are riotously happy. The days passed 
without event. Bessie arrived punctually always, 
and, though her voice seemed to Dick to come from 
a distance, her face was always very near. The 
Melancolia began to flame on the canvas, in the 
likeness of a woman who had known all the sorrow 
in the world and was laughing at it. It was true 
that the corners of the studio draped themselves in 
gray film and retired into the darkness, that the 
spots in his eyes and the pains across his head were 
very troublesome, and that Maisie’s letters were 
hard to read and harder still to answer. He could 
not tell her of his trouble, and he could not laugh 
at her accounts of her own Melancolia which was 
always going to be finished. But the furious days 
of toil and the nights of wild dreams made amends 
for all, and the sideboard was his best friend on 
earth. Bessie was singularly dull. She used to 
shriek with rage when Dick stared at her between 


x THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 207 

half-closed eyes. Now she sulked, or watched him 
with disgust, saying very little. 

Torpenhow had been absent for six weeks. An 
incoherent note heralded his return. ‘News ! great 
news ! ’ he wrote. 4 The Nilghai knows, and so does 
the Keneu. We’re all back on Thursday. Get 
lunch and clean your accoutrements.’ 

Dick showed Bessie the letter, and she abused 
him for that he had ever sent Torpenhow away and 
ruined her life. 

4 Well,’ said Dick, brutally, ‘you’re better as you 
are, instead of making love to some drunken beast 
in the street.’ He felt that he had rescued Torpen- 
how from great temptation. 

4 1 don’t know if that’s any worse than sitting to a 
drunken beast in a studio. You haven’t been sober 
for three weeks. You’ve been soaking the whole 
time ; and yet you pretend you’re better than me ! ’ 

4 What d’you mean ? ’ said Dick. 

4 Mean ! You’ll see when Mr. Torpenhow comes 
back.’ 

It was not long to wait. Torpenhow met Bessie 
on the staircase without a sign of feeling. He had 
news that was more to him than many Bessies, and 
the Keneu and the Nilghai were trampling behind 
him, calling for Dick. 

‘Drinking like a fish,’ Bessie whispered. ‘He’s 


208 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


been at it for nearly a month.’ She followed the 
men stealthily to hear judgment done. 

They came into the studio, rejoicing, to be wel- 
comed over effusively by a drawn, lined, shrunken, 
haggard wreck, — unshaven, blue-white about the 
nostrils, stooping in the shoulders, and peering 
under his eyebrows nervously. The drink had been 
at work as steadily as Dick. 

‘ Is this you ? ’ said Torpenhow. 

‘All that’s left of me. Sit down. Binkie’s 
quite well, and I’ve been doing some good work.’ 
He reeled where he stood. 

‘ You’ve done some of the worst work you’ve 
ever done in your life. Man alive, you’re ’ 

Torpenhow turned to his companions appealingly, 
and they left the room to find lunch elsewhere. 
Then he spoke ; but, since the reproof of a friend is 
much too sacred and intimate a thing to be printed, 
and since Torpenhow used figures and metaphors 
which were unseemly, and contempt untranslatable, 
it will never be known what was actually said to 
Dick, who blinked and winked and picked at his 
hands. After a time the culprit began to feel the 
need of a little self-respect. He was quite sure that 
he had not in any way departed from virtue, and 
there were reasons, too, of which Torpenhow knew 
nothing. He would explain. 


X 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 209 

He rose, tried to straighten his shoulders, and 
spoke to the face he could hardly see. 

1 You are right,’ he said. 4 But I am right, too. 
After you went away I had some trouble with my 
eyes. So I went to an oculist, and he turned a 
gasogene — I mean a gas-engine — into my eye. 
That was very long ago. He said, “ Scar on the 
head, — sword-cut and optic nerve.” Make a note 
of that. So I am going blind. I have some work 
to do before I go blind, and I suppose that I must 
do it. I cannot see much now, but I can see best 
when I am drunk. I did not know I was drunk 
till I was told, but I must go on with my work. 
If you want to see it, there it is.’ He pointed to the 
all but finished Melancolia and looked for applause. 

Torpenhow said nothing, and Dick began to 
whimper feebly, for joy at seeing Torpenhow again, 
for grief at misdeeds — if indeed they were misdeeds 
— that made Torpenhow remote and unsympathetic, 
and for childish vanity hurt, since Torpenhow had not 
given a word of praise to his wonderful picture. 

Bessie looked through the keyhole after a long 
pause, and saw the two walking up and down as 
usual, Torpenhow’s hand on Dick’s shoulder. Hereat 
she said something so improper that it shocked even 
Binkie, who was dribbling patiently on the landing 
with the hope of seeing his master again. 


CHAPTER XI 


The lark will make her hymn to God, 

The partridge call her brood, 

While I forget the heath I trod, 

The fields wherein I stood. 

’Tis dule to know not night from morn, 

But deeper dule to know 
I can but hear the hunter’s horn 
That once I used to blow. — The Only Son. 

It was the third day after Torpenhow’s return, and 
his heart was heavy. 

4 Do you mean to tell me that you can’t see to 
work without whiskey? It’s generally the other 
way about.’ 

4 Can a drunkard swear on his honour? ’ said 
Dick. 

4 Yes, if he has been as good a man as you.’ 

4 Then I give you my word of honour,’ said Dick, 
speaking hurriedly through parched lips. 4 Old 
man, I can hardly see your face now. You’ve kept 
me sober for two days, — if I ever was drunk, — and 
I’ve done no work. Don’t keep me back any more. 

210 


CHAP. XI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


211 


I don’t know when my eyes may give out. The 
spots and dots and the pains and things are crowding 
worse than ever. I swear I can see all right when 
I’m — when I’m moderately screwed, as you say. 
Give me three more sittings from Bessie and all the 
— stuff I want, and the picture will be done. I 
can’t kill myself in three days. It only means a 
touch of D. T. at the worst.’ 

‘ If I give you three days more will you promise 
me to stop work and — the other thing, whether the 
picture’s finished or not ? ’ 

‘ I can’t. You don’t know what that picture 
means to me. But surely you could get the Nilghai 
to help you, and knock me down and tie me up. I 
shouldn’t fight for the whiskey, but I should for the 
work.’ 

4 Go on, then. I give you three days ; but 

you’re nearly breaking my heart.’ 

Dick returned to his work, toiling as one 
possessed; and the yellow devil of whiskey stood 
by him and chased away the spots in his eyes. 
The Melancolia was nearly finished, and was all or 
nearly all that he had hoped she would be. Dick 
jested with Bessie, who reminded him that he was 
‘ a drunken beast ’ ; but the reproof did not move 
him. 

‘You can’t understand, Bess. We are in sight 


212 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


of land now, and soon we shall lie hack and think 
about what we’ve done. I’ll give you three months’ 
pay when the picture’s finished, and next time I 
have any more work in hand — but that doesn’t 
matter. Won’t three months’ pay make you hate 
me less ? ’ 

‘No, it won’t ! I hate you, and I’ll go on hating 
you. Mr. Torpenhow won’t speak to me any more. 
He’s always looking at maps.’ 

Bessie did not say that she had again laid siege 
to Torpenhow, or that at the end of her passionate 
pleading he had picked her up, given her a kiss, 
and put her outside the door with the recommendation 
not to be a little fool. He spent most of his time 
in the company of the Nilghai, and their talk was 
of war in the near future, the hiring of transports, 
and secret preparations among the dockyards. He 
did not wish to see Dick till the picture was finished. 

‘ He’s doing first-class work,’ he said to the 
Nilghai, ‘ and it’s quite out of his regular line. 
But, for the matter of that, so’s his infernal 
soaking.’ 

‘ Never mind. Leave him alone. When he has 
come to his senses again we’ll carry him off from 
this place and let him breathe clean air. Poor 
Dick ! I don’t envy you, Torp, when his eyes 
fail.’ 


XI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


213 


‘Yes, it will be a case of “ God help the man 
who’s chained to our Davie.” The worst is that we 
don’t know when it will happen ; and I believe the 
uncertainty and the waiting have sent Dick to the 
whiskey more than anything else.’ 

‘How the Arab who cut his head open would 
grin if he knew ! ’ 

‘ He’s at perfect liberty to grin if he can. He’s 
dead. That’s poor consolation now.’ 

In the afternoon of the third day Torpenhow 
heard Dick calling for him. ‘All finished!’ he 
shouted. ‘ I’ve done it ! Come in ! Isn’t she a 
beauty ? Isn’t she a darling ? I’ve been down to 
hell to get her ; but isn’t she worth it ? ’ 

Torpenhow looked at the head of a woman who 
laughed, — a full-lipped, hollow-eyed woman who 
laughed from out of the canvas as Dick had intended 
she should. 

‘ Who taught you how to do it ? ’ said Torpenhow. 
‘ The touch and notion have nothing to do with your 
regular work. What a face it is ! What eyes, and 
what insolence ! ’ Unconsciously he threw back his 
head and laughed with her. ‘ She’s seen the game 
played out, — I don’t think she had a good time of 
it, — and now she doesn’t care. Isn’t that the 
idea?’ 

‘Exactly.’ 


214 


THE LIGHT THAT* FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 Where did you get the mouth and chin from ? 
They don’t belong to Bess*’ 

‘They’re — some one else’s. But isn’t it good? 
Isn’t it thundering good? Wasn’t it worth the 
whiskey ? I did it. Alone I did it, and it’s the 
best I can do.’ He drew his breath sharply, and 
whispered, ‘ Just God ! what could I not do ten 
years hence, if I can do this now ! — By the way, 
what do you think of it, Bess ? ’ 

The girl was biting her lips. She loathed 
Torpenhow because he had taken no notice of 
her. 

‘ I think it’s just the horridest, beastliest thing I 
ever saw,’ she answered, and turned away. 

‘ More than you will be of that way of thinking, 
young woman. — Dick, there’s a sort of murderous, 
viperine suggestion in the poise of the head that I 
don’t understand,’ said Torpenhow. 

‘That’s trick-work,’ said Dick, chuckling with 
delight at being completely understood. ‘ I couldn’t 
resist one little bit of sheer swagger. It’s a French 
trick, and you wouldn’t understand ; but it’s got at 
by slewing round the head a trifle, and a tiny, tiny 
foreshortening of one side of the face from the angle 
of the chin to the top of the left ear. That, and 
deepening the shadow under the lobe of the ear. 
It was flagrant trick-work ; but, having the notion 


XI THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 215 

fixed, I felt entitled to play with it. — Oh, you 
beauty ! ’ 

‘ Amen ! She is a beauty. I can feel it.’ 

4 So will every man who has any sorrow of his 
own,’ said Dick, slapping his thigh. 4 He shall see 
his trouble there, and, by the Lord Harry, just when 
he’s feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw 
back his head and laugh, — as she is laughing. I’ve 
put the life of my heart and the light of my eyes 
into her, and I don’t care what comes. . . . I’m 
tired, — awfully tired. I think I’ll get to sleep. 
Take away the whiskey, it has served its turn, 
and give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over 
for luck. Cover the picture.’ 

He dropped asleep in the long chair, his face white 
and haggard, almost before he had finished the 
sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow’s hand. 
4 Aren’t you never going to speak to me any more ? ’ 
she said ; but Torpenhow was looking at Dick. 

4 What a stock of vanity the man has ! I’ll take 
him in hand to-morrow and make much of him. 
He deserves it. — Eh ! what was that, Bess ? ’ 

‘Nothing. I’ll put things tidy here a little, and 
then I’ll go. You couldn’t give me that three 
months’ pay now, could you ? He said you were 
to.’ 

Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own 


216 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied up the studio, set 
the door ajar for flight, emptied half a bottle of 
turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face 
of the Melancolia viciously. The paint did not 
smudge quickly enough. She took a palette-knife 
and scraped, following each stroke with the wet 
duster. In five minutes the picture was a formless, 
scarred muddle of colours. She threw the paint- 
stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her 
tongue at the sleeper, and whispered, ‘ Bilked ! ’ as 
she turned to run down the staircase. She would 
never see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least 
done harm to the man who had come between her 
and her desire and who used to make fun of her. 
Cashing the check was the very cream of the jest to 
Bessie. Then the little privateer sailed across the 
Thames, to be swallowed up in the gray wilderness 
of South- the- water. 

Dick slept till late into the evening, when 
Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His eyes were 
as bright as his voice was hoarse. ‘Let’s have 
another look at the picture,’ he said, insistently as 
a child. 

‘You — go — to — bed,’ said Torpenhow. ‘You 
aren’t at all well, though you mayn’t know it. 
You’re as jumpy as a cat.’ 

‘I reform to-morrow. Good-night.’ 


XI THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 217 

As he repassed through the studio, Torpenhow 
lifted the cloth above the picture, and almost be- 
trayed himself by outcries: ‘Wiped out! — scraped 
out and turped out ! If Dick knows this to-night 
he’ll go perfectly mad. He’s on the verge of jumps 
as it is. That’s Bess, — the little fiend ! Only a 
woman could have done that! — with the ink not 
dry on the check, too ! Dick will be raving mad to- 
morrow. It was all my fault for trying to help 
gutter-devils. Oh, my poor Dick, the Lord is 
hitting you very hard ! ’ 

Dick could not sleep that night, partly for pure 
joy, and partly because the well-known Catherine- 
wheels inside his eyes had given place to crackling 
volcanoes of many-coloured fire. ‘ Spout away,’ he 
said aloud. ‘ I’ve done my work, and now you can 
do what you please.’ He lay still, staring at the 
ceiling, the long-pent-up delirium of drink in his 
veins, his brain on fire with racing thoughts that 
would not stay to be considered, and Ins' hands 
crisped and dry. He had just discovered that he 
was painting the face of the Melancolia on a revolv- 
ing dome ribbed with millions of lights, and that 
all his wondrous thoughts stood embodied hundreds 
of feet below his tiny swinging plank, shouting 
together in his honour, when something cracked 
inside his temples like an overstrained bowstring, 


218 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the glittering dome broke inward, and he was alone 
in the thick night. 

‘I’ll go to sleep. The room’s very dark. Let’s 
light a lamp and see how the Melancolia looks. 
There ought to have been a moon.’ 

It was then that Torpenhow heard his name 
called by a voice that he did not know, — in the 
rattling accents of deadly fear. 

‘ He’s looked at the picture,’ was his first thought, 
as he hurried into the bedroom and found Dick 
sitting up and beating the air with his hands. 

‘Torp ! Torp ! where are you? For pity’s sake, 
come to me ! ’ 

‘ What’s the matter ? ’ 

Dick clutched at his shoulder. ‘ Matter ! I’ve 
been lying here for hours in the dark, and you never 
heard me. Torp, old man, don’t go away. I’m all 
in the dark. In the dark, I tell you ! ’ 

Torpenhow held the candle within a foot of 
Dick’s eyes, but there was no light in those eyes. 
He lit the gas, and Dick heard the flame catch. 
The grip of his fingers on Torpenhow’s shoulder 
made Torpenhow wince. 

‘Don’t leave me. You wouldn’t leave me alone 
now, would you? I can’t see. D’you understand? 
It’s black, — quite black, — and I feel as if I was 
falling through it all.’ 


XI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


219 


4 Steady does it.’ Torpenhow put his arm 
round Dick and began to rock him gently to 
and fro. 

4 That’s good. Now don’t talk. If I keep very 
quiet for a while, this darkness will lift. It seems 
just on the point of breaking. H’sh ! ’ Dick knit 
his brows and stared desperately in front of him. 
The night air was chilling Torpenhow’s toes. 

4 Can you stay like that a minute ? ’ he said. 
4 I’ll get my dressing-gown and some slippers. ’ 

Dick clutched the bed-head with both hands 
and waited for the darkness to clear away. 4 What 
a time you’ve been ! ’ he cried, when Torpenhow 
returned. 4 It’s as black as ever. What are you 
banging about in the doorway ? ’ 

4 Long chair, — horse-blanket, — pillow. Going to 
sleep by you. Lie down now; you’ll be better in 
the morning.’ 

4 1 shan’t ! ’ The voice rose to a wail. 4 My 
God ! I’m blind ! I’m blind, and the darkness will 
never go away.’ He made as if to leap from the 
bed, but Torpenhow’s arms were round him, and 
Torpenhow’s chin was on his shoulder, and his 
breath was squeezed out of him. He could only 
gasp, 4 Blind ! ’ and wriggle feebly . 

4 Steady, Dickie, steady !’ said the deep voice in 
his ear, and the grip tightened. 4 Bite on the bullet, 


220 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


old man, and don’t let them think you’re afraid.’ 
The grip could draw no closer. Both men were 
breathing heavily. Dick threw his head from side 
to side and groaned. 

‘Let me go,’ he panted. ‘You’re cracking my 
ribs. We — we mustn’t let them think we’re afraid, 
must we, — all the powers of darkness and that lot ? ’ 

‘ Lie down. It’s all over now.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Dick, obediently. ‘ But would you 
mind letting me hold your hand ? I feel as if I 
wanted something to hold on to. One drops 
through the dark so.’ 

Torpenhow thrust out a large and hairy paw from 
the long chair. Dick clutched it tightly, and in 
half an hour had fallen asleep. Torpenhow with- 
drew his hand, and, stooping over Dick, kissed him 
lightly on the forehead, as men do sometimes kiss a 
wounded comrade in the hour of death, to ease his 
departure. 

In the gray dawn Torpenhow heard Dick talking 
to himselfo He was adrift on the shoreless tides of 
delirium, speaking very quickly — 

‘ It’s a pity, — a great pity ; but it’s helped, and 
it must be eaten, Master George. Sufficient unto 
the day is the blindness thereof, and, further, putting 
aside all Melancolias and false humours, it is of ob- 
vious notoriety — such as mine was — that the queen 


XI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


221 


can do no wrong. Torp doesn’t know that. I’ll 
tell him when we’re a little farther into the desert. 
What a bungle those boatmen are making of the 
steamer-ropes ! They’ll have that four-inch hawser 
chafed through in a minute. I told you so — there 
she goes ! White foam on green water, and the 
steamer slewing round. How good that looks! 
I’ll sketch it. No, I can’t. I’m afflicted with 
ophthalmia. That was one of the ten plagues of 
Egypt, and it extends up the Nile in the shape of 
cataract. Ha ! that’s a joke, Torp. Laugh, you 
graven image, and stand clear of the hawser. . . . 
It’ll knock you into the water and make your dress 
all dirty, Maisie dear.’ 

4 Oh ! ’ said Torpenhow. 4 This happened before. 
That night on the river.’ 

4 She’ll be sure to say it’s my fault if you get 
muddy, and you’re quite near enough to the break- 
water. Maisie, that’s not fair. Ah ! I knew you’d 
miss. Low and to the left, dear. But you’ve no 
conviction. Everything in the world except con- 
viction. Don’t be angry, darling. I’d cut my hand 
off if it would give you anything more than obsti- 
nacy. My right hand, if it would serve.’ 

4 Now we mustn’t listen. Here’s an island shout- 
ing across seas of misunderstanding with a vengeance. 
But it’s shouting truth, I fancy,’ said Torpenhow. 


222 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


The babble continued. It all bore upon Maisie. 
Sometimes Dick lectured at length on his craft, then 
he cursed himself for his folly in being enslaved. 
He pleaded to Maisie for a kiss. — only one kiss — 
before she went away, and called to her to come 
back from Vitry-sur-Marne, if she would ; but 
through all his ravings he bade heaven and earth 
witness that the queen could do no wrong. 

Torpenhow listened attentively, and learned 
every detail of Dick’s life that had been hidden 
from him. For three days Dick raved through his 
past, and then slept a natural sleep. 4 What a 
strain he has been running under, poor chap ! ’ said 
Torpenhow. ‘Dick, of all men, handing himself 
over like a dog ! And I was lecturing him on 
arrogance ! I ought to have known that it was no 
use to judge a man. But I did it. What a demon 
that girl must be ! Dick’s given her his life, — 
confound him ! — and she’s given him one kiss 
apparently.’ 

4 Torp,’ said Dick, from the bed, 4 go out for a 
walk. You’ve been here too long. I’ll get up. 
Hi ! This is annoying. I can’t dress myself. Oh, 
it’s too absurd ! ’ 

Torpenhow helped him into his clothes and led 
him to the big chair in the studio. He sat quietly 
waiting under strained nerves for the darkness to 


XI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


223 


lift. It did not lift that day, nor the next. Dick 
adventured on a voyage round the walls. He hit 
his shins against the stove, and this suggested to 
him that it would be better to crawl on all fours, 
one hand in front of him. Torpenhow found him 
on the floor. 

‘I’m trying to get the geography of my new 
possessions,’ said he. ‘ D’you remember that nigger 
you gouged in the square ? Pity you didn’t keep 
the odd eye. It would have been useful. Any 
letters for me ? Give me all the ones in fat gray 
envelopes with a sort of crown thing outside. 
They’re of no importance.’ 

Torpenhow gave him a letter with a black M. 
on the envelope flap. Dick put it into his pocket. 
There was nothing in it that Torpenhow might not 
have read, but it belonged to himself and to Maisie, 
who would never belong to him. 

‘When she finds that I don’t write, she’ll stop 
writing. It’s better so. I couldn’t be any use to 
her now,’ Dick argued, and the tempter suggested 
that he should make known his condition. Every 
nerve in him revolted. ‘ I have fallen low enough 
already. I’m not going to beg for pity. Besides, 
it would be cruel to her.’ He strove to put Maisie 
out of his thoughts; but the blind have many 
opportunities for thinking, and as the tides of his 


224 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


strength came back to him in the long employless 
days of dead darkness, Dick’s soul was troubled to 
the core. Another letter, and another, came from 
Maisie. Then there was silence, and Dick sat by 
the window, the pulse of summer in the air, and 
pictured her being won by another man, stronger 
than himself. His imagination, the keener for the 
dark background it worked against, spared him no 
single detail that might send him raging up and 
down the studio, to stumble over the stove that 
seemed to be in four places at once. Worst of all, 
tobacco would not taste in the darkness. The arro- 
gance of the man had disappeared, and in its place 
were settled despair that Torpenhow knew, and 
blind passion that Dick confided to his pillow at 
night. The intervals between the paroxysms were 
filled with intolerable waiting and the weight of 
intolerable darkness. 

‘Come out into the Park,’ said Torpenhow. 
‘You haven’t stirred out since the beginning of 
things.’ 

‘What’s the use? There’s no movement in the 
dark ; and, besides,’ — he paused irresolutely at the 
head of the stairs, — ‘something will run over me.’ 

‘Not if I’m with you. Proceed gingerly.’ 

The roar of the streets filled Dick with nervous 
terror, and he clung to Torpenhow’ s arm. ‘ Fancy 


XI 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


225 


having to feel for a gutter with your foot ! ’ he 
said petulantly, as he turned into the Park. 4 Let’s 
curse God and die.’ 

4 Sentries are forbidden to pay unauthorised 
compliments. By Jove, there are the Guards ! ’ 
Dick’s figure straightened. ‘Let’s get near ’em. 
Let’s go in and look. Let’s get on the grass and 
run. I can smell the trees.’ 

4 Mind the low railing. That’s all right ! ’ 
Torpenhow kicked out a tuft of grass with his 
heel. 4 Smell that,’ he said. 4 Isn’t it good?’ 
Dick snuffed luxuriously. 4 Now pick up your 
feet and run.’ They approached as near to the 
regiment as was possible. The clank of bayonets 
being unfixed made Dick’s nostrils quiver. 

4 Let’s get nearer. They’re in column, aren’t they ? ’ 
4 Yes. How did you know ? ’ 

4 Felt it. Oh, my men! — my beautiful men!’ 
He edged forward as though he could see. 4 1 could 
draw those chaps once. Who’ll draw ’em now ? ’ 
‘They’ll move off in a minute. Don’t jump 
when the band begins.’ 

4 Huh ! I’m not a new charger. It’s the silences 
that hurt. Nearer, Torp ! — nearer ! Oh, my God, 
what wouldn’t I give to see ’em for a minute ! — 
one half-minute ! ’ 

He could hear the armed life almost within 

Q 


226 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. XI 


reach of him, could hear the slings tighten across 
the bandsman’s chest as he heaved the big drum 
from the ground. 

4 Sticks crossed above his head,’ whispered Tor- 
penhow. 

4 1 know. I know ! Who should know if I 
don’t ? H’sh ! ’ 

The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men 
swung forward to the crash of the band. Dick felt 
the wind of the massed movement in his face, 
heard the maddening tramp of feet and the fric- 
tion of the pouches on the belts. The big drum 
pounded out the tune. It was a music-hall refrain 
that made a perfect quickstep — 

He must be a man of decent height, 

He must be a man of weight, 

He must come home on a Saturday night 
In a thoroughly sober state ; 

He must know how to love me, 

And he must know how to kiss ; 

And if he’s enough to keep us both 
I can’t refuse him bliss. 

‘What’s the matter?’ said Torpenhow, as he 
saw Dick’s head fall when the last of the regiment 
had departed. 

4 Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the running, 
— that’s all. Torp, take me back. Why did you 
bring me out ? ’ 


CHAPTER XII 


There were three friends that buried the fourth, 

The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes ; 

And they went south and east, and north, — 

The strong man fights, but the sick man dies. 

There were three friends that spoke of the dead, — 

The strong man fights, but the sick man dies. — 

‘ And would he were here with us now,’ they said, 

‘ The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.’ 

— Ballad. 

The Nilghai was angry with Torpenhow. Dick 
had been sent to bed, — blind men are ever under 
the orders of those who can see, — and since he 
had returned from the Park had fluently sworn at 
Torpenhow because he was alive, and all the world 
because it was alive and could see, while he, Dick, 
was dead in the death of the blind, who, at the best, 
are onty burdens upon their associates. Torpenhow 
had said something about a Mrs. Gummidge, and 
Dick had retired in a black fury to handle and re- 
handle three unopened letters from Maisie. 

227 


228 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


The Nilghai, fat, burly, and aggressive, was in 
Torpenhow’s rooms. Behind him sat the Keneu, 
the Great War Eagle, and between them lay a 
large map embellished with black-and-white-headed 
pins. 

‘I was wrong about the Balkans,’ said the 
Nilghai. ‘But I’m not wrong about this business. 
The whole of our work in the Southern Soudan 
must be done over again. The public doesn’t care, 
of course, but the government does, and they are 
making their arrangements quietly. You know 
that as well as I do.’ 

‘ I remember how the people cursed us when our 
troops withdrew from Omdurman. It was bound 
to crop up sooner or later. But I can’t go,’ said 
Torpenhow. He pointed through the open door ; 
it was a hot night. ‘ Can you blame me ? ’ 

The Keneu purred above his pipe like a large 
and very happy cat — 

‘ Don’t blame you in the least. It’s uncommonly 
good of you, and all the rest of it, but every man — 
even you, Torp — must consider his work. I know 
it sounds brutal, but Dick’s out of the race, — down, 
— gastados , expended, finished, done for. He has a 
little money of his own. He won’t starve, and you 
can’t pull out of your slide for his sake. Think of 
your own reputation.’ 


XH THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 229 

4 Dick’s was five times bigger than mine and yours 
put together.’ 

4 That was because he signed his name to every- 
thing he did. It’s all ended now. You must hold 
yourself in readiness to move out. You can com- 
mand your own prices, and you do better work than 
any three of us.’ 

4 Don’t tell me how tempting it is. I’ll stay 
here to look after Dick for a while. He’s as cheer- 
ful as a bear with a sore head, but I think he likes 
to have me near him.’ 

The Nilghai said something uncomplimentary 
about soft-headed fools who throw away their careers 
for other fools. Torpenhow flushed angrily. The 
constant strain of attendance on Dick had worn his 
nerves thin. 

‘There remains a third fate,’ said the Keneu, 
thoughtfully. ‘Consider this, and be not larger 
fools than is necessary. Dick is — or rather was — 
an able-bodied man of moderate attractions and a 
certain amount of audacity.’ 

4 Oho ! ’ said the Nilghai, who remembered an 
affair at Cairo. 4 1 begin to see. — Torp, I’m sorry.’ 

Torpenhow nodded forgiveness : 4 You were more 
sorry when he cut you out, though. — Go on, 
Keneu.’ 

4 I’ve often thought, when I’ve seen men die out 


230 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


in the desert, that if the news could be sent through 
the world, and the means of transport were quick 
enough, there would be one woman at least at each 
man’s bedside.’ 

‘ There would be some mighty quaint revelations. 
Let us be grateful things are as they are,’ said the 
Nilghai. 

‘ Let us rather reverently consider whether Torp’s 
three-cornered ministrations are exactly what Dick 
needs just now. — What do you think yourself, 
Torp ? ’ 

‘ I know they aren’t. But what can I do ? ’ 

‘Lay the matter before the board. We are all 
Dick’s friends here. You’ve been most in his life.’ 

‘ But I picked it up when he was off his head.’ 

‘ The greater chance of its being true. I thought 
we should arrive. Who is she ? ’ 

Then Torpenhow told a tale in plain words, as a 
special correspondent who knows how to make a 
verbal precis should tell it. The men listened with- 
out interruption. 

‘ Is it possible that a man can come back across 
the years to his calf-love ? ’ said the Keneu. ‘ Is it 
possible ? ’ 

I give the facts. He says nothing about it now, 
but he sits fumbling three letters from her when he 
thinks I’m not looking. What am I to do ? 9 


XII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


231 


‘ Speak to him,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘ Oh yes ! Write to her, — I don’t know her full 
name, remember, — and ask her to accept him out 
of pity. I believe you once told Dick you were 
sorry for him, Nilghai. You remember what 
happened, eh? Go into the bedroom and suggest 
full confession and an appeal to this Maisie girl, 
whoever she is. I honestly believe he’d try to 
kill you ; and the blindness has made him rather 
muscular.’ 

‘Torpenhow’s course is perfectly clear,’ said the 
Keneu. ‘He will go to Vitry-sur-Marne, which is 
on the Bezieres-Landes Railway, — single track from 
Tourgas. The Prussians shelled it out in ’TO 
because there was a poplar on the top of a hill 
eighteen hundred yards from the church spire. 
There’s a squadron of cavalry quartered there, — or 
ought to be. Where this studio Torp spoke about 
may be I cannot tell. That is Torp’s business. I 
have given him his route. He will dispassionately 
explain the situation to the girl, and she will come 
back to Dick, — the more especially because, to use 
Dick’s words, “there is nothing but her damned 
obstinacy to keep them apart.”’ 

‘ And they have four hundred and twenty 
pounds a year between ’em. Dick never lost his 
head for figures, even in his delirium. You haven’t 


232 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the shadow of an excuse for not going,’ said the 
Nilghai. 

Torpenhow looked very uncomfortable. 4 But 
it’s absurd and impossible. I can’t drag her back 
by the hair.’ 

4 Our business — the business for which we draw 
our money — is to do absurd and impossible things, 
— generally with no reason whatever except to 
amuse the public. Here we have a reason. The 
rest doesn’t matter. I shall share these rooms with 
the Nilghai till Torpenhow returns. There will be 
a batch of unbridled 44 specials ” coming to town in 
a little while, and these will serve as their head- 
quarters. Another reason for sending Torpenhow 
away. Thus Providence helps those who help 
others, and’ — here the Keneu dropped his measured 
speech — 4 we can’t have you tied by the leg to 
Dick when the trouble begins. It’s your only 
chance of getting away ; and Dick will be grateful. ’ 

4 He will, — worse luck ! I can but go and try. I 
can’t conceive a woman in her senses refusing Dick.’ 

‘Talk that out with the girl. I have seen you 
wheedle an angry Mahdieh woman into giving you 
dates. This won’t be a tithe as difficult. You 
had better not be here to-morrow afternoon, because 
the Nilghai and I will be in possession. It is an 
order. Obey.’ 


XII THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 233 

‘Dick,’ said Torpenhow, next morning, 4 can I do 
anything for you ? ’ 

‘No! Leave me alone. How often must I 
remind you that I’m blind?’ 

‘Nothing I could go for to fetch for to carry 
for to bring?’ 

‘No. Take those infernal creaking boots of yours 
away.’ 

‘Poor chap!’ said Torpenhow to himself. ‘I 
must have been sitting on his nerves lately. He 
wants a lighter step.’ Then, aloud, ‘Very well. 
Since you’re so independent, I’m going off for four 
or five days. Say good-bye at least. The house- 
keeper will look after you, and Keneu has my 
rooms.’ 

Dick’s face fell. ‘You won’t be longer than a 
week at the outside ? I know I’m touched in the 
temper, but I can’t get on without you.’ 

‘ Can’t you ? You’ll have to do without me in a 
little time, and you’ll be glad I’m gone.’ 

Dick felt his way back to the big chair, and 
wondered what these things might mean. He did 
not wish to be tended by the housekeeper, and yet 
Torpenhow’s constant tendernesses jarred on him. 
He did not exactly know what he wanted. The 
darkness would not lift, and Maisie’s unopened 
letters felt worn and old from much handling. He 


234 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


could never read them for himself as long as life 
endured ; but Maisie might have sent him some 
fresh ones to play with. The Nilghai entered with 
a gift, — a piece of red modelling- wax. He fancied 
that Dick might find interest in using his hands. 
Dick poked and patted the stuff for a few minutes, 
and, ‘Is it like anything in the world?’ he said 
drearily. ‘ Take it away. I may get the touch of 
the blind in fifty years. Do you know where Tor- 
penhow has gone ? ’ 

The Nilghai knew nothing. ‘We’re staying in 
his rooms till he comes back. Can we do anything 
for you? ’ 

‘I’d like to be left alone, please. Don’t think 
I’m ungrateful ; but I’m best alone.’ 

The Nilghai chuckled, and Dick resumed his 
drowsy brooding and sullen rebellion against fate. 
He had long since ceased to think about the work 
he had done in the old days, and the desire to do 
more work had departed from him. He was ex- 
ceedingly sorry for himself, and the completeness 
of his tender grief soothed him. But his soul and 
his body cried for Maisie — Maisie who would 
understand. His mind pointed out that Maisie, 
having her own work to do, would not care. His 
experience had taught him that when money was 
exhausted women went away, and that when a man 


XII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


235 


was knocked ont of the race the others trampled 
on him. ‘ Then at the least,’ said Dick, in reply, 
‘she could use me as I used Binat, — for some 
sort of a study. I wouldn’t ask more than to be 
near her again, even though I knew that another 
man was making love to her. Ugh! what a dog 
I am ! ’ 

A voice on the staircase began to sing joyfully — 

‘ When we go — go — go away from here, 

Our creditors will weep and they will wail, 

Our absence much regretting when they find that we’ve been 
getting 

Out of England by next Tuesday’s Indian mail.’ 

Following the trampling of feet, slamming of 
Torpenhow’s door, and the sound of voices in 
strenuous debate, some one squeaked, ‘And see, 
you good fellows, I have found a new water-bottle, 
— firs’-class patent — eh, how you say ? Open 
himself inside out.’ 

Dick sprang to his feet. He knew the voice 
well. ‘ That’s Cassavetti, come back from the 
Continent. Now I know why Torp went away. 
There’s a row somewhere, and — I’m out of it ! ’ 

The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. ‘ That’s 
for my sake,’ Dick said bitterly. ‘The birds are 
getting ready to fly, and they wouldn’t tell me. 
I can hear Morten-Sutherland and Mackaye. 


236 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP 


Half the War Correspondents in London are there ; 

— and I’m out of it.’ 

He stumbled across the landing and plunged 
into Torpenhow’s room. He could feel that it was 
full of men. ‘ Where’s the trouble ? ’ said he. 
4 In the Balkans at last ? Why didn’t some one 
tell me ? ’ 

‘We thought you wouldn’t be interested,’ said 
the Nilghai, shamefacedly. ‘It’s in the Soudan, 
as usual.’ 

‘ You lucky dogs ! Let me sit here while you 
talk. I shan’t be a skeleton at the feast. — 
Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as 
bad as ever.’ 

Dick was led into a chair. He heard the rustle 
of the maps, and the talk swept forward, carrying 
him with it. Everybody spoke at once, discussing 
press censorships, railway-routes, transport, water- 
supply, the capacities of generals, — these in lan- 
guage that would have horrified a trusting public, 

— ranting, asserting, denouncing, and laughing at 
the top of their voices. There was the glorious 
certainty of war in the Soudan at any moment. 
The Nilghai said so, and it was well to be in 
readiness. The Keneu had telegraphed to Cairo 
for horses ; Cassavetti had stolen a perfectly 
inaccurate list of troops that would be ordered 


XII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


237 


forward, and was reading it out amid profane 
interruptions, and the Keneu introduced to Dick 
some man unknown who would he employed as 
war artist by the Central Southern Syndicate. 
4 It’s his first outing,’ said the Keneu. 4 Give him 
some tips — about riding camels.’ 

4 Oh, those camels ! ’ groaned Cassavetti. 4 1 shall 
learn to ride him again, and now I am so much all 
soft ! Listen, you good fellows. I know your 
military arrangement very well. There will go the 
Royal Argalshire Sutherlanders. So it was read to 
me upon best authority.’ 

A roar of laughter interrupted him. 

4 Sit down,’ said the Nilghai. 4 The lists aren’t 
even made out in the War Office.’ 

‘Will there be any force at Suakin?’ said a 
voice. 

Then the outcries redoubled, and grew mixed, 
thus : 4 How many Egyptian troops will they use ? 

God help the Fellaheen ! There’s a railway 

in Plumstead marshes doing duty as a fives-court. 

We shall have the Suakin-Berber line built at 

last. Canadian voyageurs are too careful. Give 

me a half-drunk Krooman in a whale-boat. Who 

commands the Desert column? No, they never 

blew up the big rock in the Ghineh bend. W e shall 
have to be hauled up, as usual. Somebody tell 


238 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


me if there’s an Indian contingent, or I’ll break 

everybody’s head. Don’t tear the map in two. 

It’s a war of occupation, I tell you, to connect 

with the African companies in the South. 

There’s Guinea-worm in most of the wells on that 
route.’ Then the Nilghai, despairing of peace, 
bellowed like a fog-horn and beat upon the table 
wdth both hands. 

‘But what becomes of Torpenhow?’ said Dick, in 
the silence that followed. 

‘Torp’s in abeyance just now. He’s off love- 
making somewhere, I suppose,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘ He said he was going to stay at home,’ said the 
Keneu. 

‘Is he?’ said Dick, with an oath. ‘He won’t. 
I’m not much good now, but if you and the Nilghai 
hold him down I’ll engage to trample on him till he 
sees reason. He stay behind, indeed ! He’s the 
best of you all. There’ll be some tough work by 
Omdurman. We shall come there to stay, this time. 
But I forgot. I wish I were going with you.’ 

‘ So do we all, Dickie,’ said the Keneu. 

‘ And I most of all,’ said the new artist of 
the Central Southern Syndicate. ‘Could you tell 
me ’ 

‘ I’ll give you one piece of advice,’ Dick answered, 
moving towards the door. ‘If you happen to be 


XII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


239 


cut over the head in a scrimmage, don’t guard. 
Tell the man to go on cutting. You’ll find it 
cheapest in the end. Thanks for letting me look in.’ 

6 There’s grit in Dick,’ said the Nilghai, an hour 
later, when the room was emptied of all save the 
Keneu. 

4 It was the sacred call of the war-trumpet. 
Did you notice how he answered to it ? Poor 
fellow ! Let’s look at him,’ said the Keneu. 

The excitement of the talk had died away. 
Dick was sitting by the studio table, with his head 
on his arms, when the men came in. He did not 
change his position. 

4 It hurts,’ he moaned. 4 God forgive me, but it 
hurts cruelly ; and yet, y’know, the world has a 
knack of spinning round all by itself. Shall I see 
Torp before he goes ? ’ 

4 Oh, yes. You’ll see him,’ said the Nilghai. 


CHAPTER XIII 

The sun went down an hour ago, 

I wonder if I face towards home ; 

If I lost my way in the light of day 
How shall I find it now night is come ? 

— Old Song. 

‘Maisie, come to bed.’ 

4 It’s so hot I can’t sleep. Don’t worry.’ 

Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill and 
looked at the moonlight on the straight, poplar- 
flanked road. Summer had come upon Vitry-sur- 
Marne and parched it to the bone. The grass was 
dry-burnt in the meadows, the clay by the bank of 
the river was caked to brick, the roadside flowers 
were long since dead, and the roses in the garden 
hung withered on their stalks. The heat in the 
little low bedroom under the eaves was almost 
intolerable. The very moonlight on the wall of 
Kami’s studio across the road seemed to make the 
night hotter, and the shadow of the big bell-handle 
240 


CHAP. XIH 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


241 


by the closed gate cast a bar of inky black that 
caught Maisie’s eye and annoyed her. 

4 Horrid thing ! It should be all white,’ she 
murmured. 4 And the gate isn’t in the middle of 
the wall, either. I never noticed that before.’ 

Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First, 
the heat of the past few weeks had worn her down ; 
secondly, her work, and particularly the study of a 
female head intended to represent the Melancolia 
and not finished in time for the Salon, was unsatis- 
factory ; thirdly, Kami had said as much two days 
before ; fourthly, — but so completely fourthly that 
it was hardly worth thinking about, — Dick, her 
property, had not written to her for more than six 
weeks. She was angry with the heat, with Kami, 
and with her work, but she was exceedingly angry 
with Dick. 

She had written to him three times, — each time 
proposing a fresh treatment of her Melancolia. 
Dick had taken no notice of these communications. 
She had resolved to write no more. When she 
returned to England in the autumn — for her pride’s 
sake she could not return earlier — she would speak 
to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon con- 
ferences more than she cared to admit. All that 
Kami said was, 4 Continuez , mademoiselle, continuez 
toujours ,’ and he had been repeating his wearisome 


242 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a 
cicala, — an old gray cicala in a black alpaca coat, 
white trousers, and a huge felt hat. But Dick had 
tramped masterfully up and down her little studio 
north of the cool green London park, and had said 
things ten times worse than continuez , before he 
snatched the brush out of her hand and showed 
her where her error lay. His last letter, Maisie 
remembered, contained some trivial advice about not 
sketching in the sun or drinking water at wayside 
farmhouses ; and he had said that not once, but 
three times, — as if he did not know that Maisie 
could take care of herself. 

But what was he doing, that he could not trouble 
to write? A murmur of voices in the road made 
her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the 
little garrison in the town was talking to Kami’s 
cook. The moonlight glittered on the scabbard of 
his sabre, which he was holding in his hand lest it 
should clank inopportunely. The cook’s cap cast 
deep shadows on her face, which was close to the 
conscript’s. He slid his arm round her waist, and 
there followed the sound of a kiss. 

4 Faugh I ’ said Maisie, stepping back. 

4 What’s that ? ’ said the red-haired girl, who was 
tossing uneasily outside her bed. 

4 Only a conscript kissing the cook,’ said Maisie. 


xm 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


243 


‘ They’ve gone away now.’ She leaned out of the 
window again, and put a shawl over her nightgown 
to guard against chills. There was a very small 
night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below 
nodded its head as one who knew unutterable 
secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his 
thoughts from her work and his own and descend to 
the degradation of Suzanne and the conscript ? He 
could not ! The rose nodded its head and one leaf 
therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil 
scratching its ear. Dick could not, ‘because,’ 
thought Maisie, ‘ he is mine, — mine, — mine. He 
said he was. I’m sure I don’t care what he does. 
It will only spoil his work if he does; and it will 
spoil mine too.’ 

The rose continued to nod in the futile way 
peculiar to flowers. There was no earthly reason 
why Dick should not disport himself as he chose, 
except that he was called by Providence, which 
was Maisie, to assist Maisie in her work. And her 
work was the preparation of pictures that went 
sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the 
notices in the scrap-book proved, and that were 
invariably rejected by the Salon when Kami was 
plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her 
w'ork in the future, it seemed, would be the 
preparation of pictures on exactly similar lines 


244 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


which would be rejected in exactly the same 

way 

The red-haired girl threshed distressfully across 
the sheets. ‘It’s too hot to sleep,’ she moaned; 
and the interruption jarred. 

Exactly the same way. Then she would divide 
her years between the little studio in England and 
Kami’s big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne. No, she 
would go to another master, who should force her 
into the success that was her right, if patient toil 
and desperate endeavour gave one a right to any- 
thing. Dick had told her that he had worked ten 
years to understand his craft. She had worked ten 
years, and ten years were nothing. Dick had said 
that ten years were nothing, — but that was in 
regard to herself only. He had said — this very 
man who could not find time to write — that he 
would wait ten years for her, and that she was 
bound to come back to him sooner or later. He 
had said this in the absurd letter about sunstroke 
and diphtheria ; and then he had stopped writing. 
He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, 
kissing cooks. She would like to lecture him now, 
— not in her nightgown, of course, but properly 
dressed, severely and from a height. Yet if he was 
kissing other girls he certainly would not care 
whether she lectured him or not. He would laugh 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


245 


at her. Very good. She would go back to her 
studio and prepare pictures that went, etc., etc. 
The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that 
no section of it might be slurred over, and the red- 
haired girl tossed and turned behind her. 

Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided 
that there could be no doubt whatever of the villany 
of Dick. To justify herself, she began, unwomanly, 
to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he 
had said he loved her. And he kissed her, — 
kissed her on the cheek, — by a yellow sea-poppy 
that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry 
rose in the garden. Then there was an interval, 
and men had told her that they loved her — just 
when she was busiest with her work. Then the 
boy came back, and at their very second meeting 

had told her that he loved her. Then he had 

But there was no end to the things he had done. 
He had given her his time and his powers. He had 
spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, technique, tea- 
cups, the abuse of pickles as a stimulant, — that was 
rude, — sable hair-brushes, — he had given her the 
best in her stock, — she used them daily; he had 
given her advice that she profited by, and now and 
again — a look. Such a look ! The look of a 
beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his 
mistress’s feet. In return she had given him 


246 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


nothing whatever, except — here she brushed her 
mouth against the open-work sleeve of her night- 
gown — the privilege of kissing her once. And 
on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not 
enough, and more than enough ? and if it was not, 
had he not cancelled the debt by not writing and — 
probably kissing other girls ? 

‘ Maisie, you’ll catch a chill. Do go and lie 
down,’ said the wearied voice of her companion. 
4 1 can’t sleep a wink with you at the window.’ 

Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not 
answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses of 
Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had 
nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her 
sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio across 
the road in cold silver ; she stared at it intently 
and her thoughts began to slide one into the 
other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the 
wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out 
as the moon went down behind the pasture and 
a hare came limping home across the road. Then 
the dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, 
and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed 
by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie’s head fell 
forward on the window-sill, and the tangle of black 
hair covered her arms. 

4 Maisie, wake up. You’ll catch a chill.’ 


xm 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


247 


‘Yes, dear; yes, dear.’ She staggered to her 
bed like a wearied child, and as she buried her face 
in the pillows she muttered, ‘I think — I think. 
. . . But he ought to have written.’ 

Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell 
of paint and turpentine, and the monotonous 
wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a 
golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy 
with him. Maisie was not in sympathy that day, 
and she waited impatiently for the end of the work. 
She knew when it was coming ; for Kami would 
gather his black alpaca coat into a bunch behind 
him, and, with faded blue eyes that saw neither 
pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall 
the history of one Binat. ‘ You have all done not 
so badly,’ he would say. ‘ But you shall remember 
that it is not enough to have the method, and the 
art, and the power, nor even that which is touch, 
but you shall have also the conviction that nails the 
work to the wall. Of the so many I have taught,’ 
— here the students would begin to unfix drawing- 
pins or get their tubes together, — ‘ the very so many 
that I have taught, the best was Binat. All that 
comes of the study and the work and the knowledge 
was to him even when he came. After he left me 
he should have done all that could be done with the 
colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, he 


248 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


had not the conviction. So to-day I hear no more 
of Binat, — the best of my pupils, — and that is long 
ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad to hear no 
more of me. Continuez , mesdemoiselles , and, above 
all, with conviction.’ 

He went into the garden to smoke and mourn 
over the lost Binat as the pupils dispersed to their 
several cottages or loitered in the studio to make 
plans for the cool of the afternoon. 

Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, 
restrained a desire to grimace before it, and was 
hurrying across the road to write a letter to Dick, 
when she was aware of a large man on a white 
troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in the 
course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts 
of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur- 
Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of a 
glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to 
tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best horse 
in the squadron for the journey to Kami’s studio, is a 
mystery that only special correspondents can unravel. 

‘I beg your pardon,’ said he. 4 It seems an 
absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I don’t 
know her by any other name : Is there any young 
lady here that is called Maisie ? ’ 

4 1 am Maisie,’ was the answer from the depths 
of a great sun-hat. 



MY NAME IS TORPENHOW 






























* 















XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


249 


‘ I ought to introduce myself,’ he said, as the 
horse capered in the blinding white dust. 4 My 
name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best 
friend, and — and — the fact is that he has gone 
blind.’ 

‘ Blind ! ’ said Maisie, stupidly. 4 He can’t be 
blind.’ 

4 He has been stone-blind for nearly two 
months.’ 

Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly 
white. 4 No! No! Not blind! I won’t have 
him blind ! ’ 

‘Would you care to see for yourself?’ said 
Torpenhow. 

‘Now, — at once?’ 

4 Oh no ! The Paris train doesn’t go through 
this place till eight to-night. There will be ample 
time.’ 

4 Did Mr. Heldar send you to me ? ’ 

‘Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort of 
thing. He’s sitting in his studio, turning over some 
letters that he can’t read because he’s blind.’ 

There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. 
Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, 
where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining 
of a headache. 

4 Dick’s blind ! ’ said Maisie, taking her breath 


250 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


quickly as she steadied herself against a cliair-back. 
‘ My Dick’s blind ! ’ 

4 What ? ’ The girl was on the sofa no longer. 

4 A man has come from England to tell me. He 
hasn’t written to me for six weeks.’ 

‘Are you going to him?’ 

4 1 must think. ’ 

4 Think ! I should go back to London and see 
him, and I should kiss his eyes and kiss them and 
kiss them until they got well again ! If you don’t 
go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You 
wicked little idiot ! Go to him at once. Go ! ’ 

Torpenhow’s neck was blistering, but he preserved 
a smile of infinite patience as Maisie appeared bare- 
headed in the sunshine. 

4 1 am coming,’ said she, her eyes on the ground. 

4 You will be at Yitry Station, then, at seven this 
evening.’ This was an order delivered by one who 
was used to being obeyed. Maisie said nothing, but 
she felt grateful that there was no chance of 
disputing with this big man who took everything 
for granted and managed a squealing horse with one 
hand. She returned to the red-haired girl, who was 
weeping bitterly, and between tears, kisses, — very 
few of those, — menthol, packing, and an interview 
with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore away. 
Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


251 


was to go to Dick, — Dick who owned the wondrous 
friend and sat in the dark playing with her 
unopened letters. 

‘ But what will you do ? ’ she said to her 
companion. 

4 1 ? Oh, I shall stay here and — finish your 
Melancolia,’ she said, smiling pitifully. 4 Write to 
me afterwards.’ 

That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur- 
Marne of a mad Englishman, doubtless suffering 
from sunstroke, who had drunk all the officers of 
the garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse 
from the lines, and had then and there eloped, after 
the English custom, with one of those more than 
mad English girls who drew pictures down there 
under the care of that good Monsieur Kami. 

4 They are very droll,’ said Suzanne to the con- 
script in the moonlight by the studio wall. ‘She 
walked always with those big eyes that saw nothing, 
and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she 
were my sister, and gives me — see — ten francs ! ’ 

The conscript levied a contribution on both 
gifts ; for he prided himself on being a good 
soldier. 

Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie during the 
journey to Calais ; but he was careful to attend to 
all her wants, to get her a compartment entirely 


252 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


to herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed 
at the ease with which the matter had been 
accomplished. 

‘The safest thing would be to let her think 
things out. By Dick’s showing, — when he was off 
his head, — she must have ordered him about very 
thoroughly. Wonder how she likes being under 
orders.’ 

Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compart- 
ment often with her eyes shut, that she might realise 
the sensation of blindness. It was an order that she 
should return to London swiftly, and she found 
herself at last almost beginning to enjoy the 
situation. This was better than looking after 
luggage and a red-haired friend who never took 
any interest in her surroundings. But there ap- 
peared to be a feeling in the air that she, Maisie, 
— of all people, — was in disgrace. Therefore she 
justified her conduct to herself with great success, 
till Torpenhow came up to her on the steamer and 
without preface began to tell the story of Dick’s 
blindness, suppressing a few details, but dwelling 
at length on the miseries of delirium. He stopped 
before he reached the end, as though he had lost 
interest in the subject, and went forward to smoke. 
Maisie was furious with him and with herself. 

She was hurried on from Dover to London 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


253 


almost before she could ask for breakfast, and — she 
was past any feeling of indignation now — was 
bidden curtly to wait in a hall at the foot of some 
lead-covered stairs while Torpenhow went up to 
make inquiries. Again the knowledge that she was 
being treated like a naughty little girl made her 
pale cheeks flame. It was all Dick’s fault for 
being so stupid as to go blind. 

Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which he 
opened very softly. Dick was sitting by the 
window, with his chin on his chest. There were 
three envelopes in his hand, and he turned them 
over and over. The big man who gave orders was 
no longer by her side, and the studio door snapped 
behind her. 

Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he 
heard the sound. 4 Hullo, Torp ! Is that you ? 
I’ve been so lonely.’ 

His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of the 
blind. Maisie pressed herself up into a corner of 
the room. Her heart was beating furiously, and 
she put one hand on her breast to keep it quiet. 
Dick was staring directly at her, and she realised 
for the first time that he was blind. Shutting her 
eyes in a railway-carriage to open them when she 
pleased was child’s play. This man was blind 
though his eyes were ..wide open. 


254 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ Torp, is that yon ? They said you were 
coming.’ Dick looked puzzled and a little irritated 
at the silence. 

‘No: it’s only me,’ was the answer, in a strained 
little whisper. Maisie could hardly move her lips. 

‘ H’m ! ’ said Dick, composedly, without moving. 

‘ This is a new phenomenon. Darkness I’m getting 
used to; but I object to hearing voices.’ 

Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he 
talked to himself ? Maisie’s heart beat more wildly, 
and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose and began 
to feel his way across the room, touching each table 
and chair as he passed. Once he caught his foot 
on a rug, and swore, dropping on his knees to feel 
what the obstruction might be. Maisie remembered 
him walking in the Park as though all the earth 
belonged to him, tramping up and down her studio 
two months ago, and flying up the gangway of the 
Channel steamer. The beating of her heart was 
making her sick, and Dick was coming nearer, 
guided by the sound of her breathing. She put 
out a hand mechanically to ward him off or to draw 
him to herself, she did not know which. It touched 
his chest, and he stepped back as though he had 
been shot. 

‘ It’s Maisie ! ’ said he, with a dry sob. ‘ What 
are you doing here ? ’ 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


255 


4 1 came — I came — to see you, please.’ 

Dick’s lips closed firmly. 

‘Won’t you sit down, then? You see, I’ve had 
some bother with my eyes, and ’ 

‘ I know. I know. Why didn’t you tell me ? ’ 

‘I couldn’t write.’ 

‘You might have told Mr. Torpenhow.’ 

‘ What has he to do with my affairs ? ’ 

‘ He — he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. 
He thought I ought to see you.’ 

‘ Why, what has happened ? Can I do anything 
for you? No, I can’t. I forgot.’ 

‘ Oh, Dick, I’m so sorry ! I’ve come to tell 

you, and Let me take you back to your 

chair.’ 

‘ Don’t ! I’m not a child. You only do that 
out of pity. I never meant to tell you anything 
about it. I’m no good now. I’m down and done 
for. Let me alone ! ’ 

He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring 
as he sat down. 

Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of 
her heart, to be followed by a very bitter shame. 
He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from 
the girl through every step of the impetuous flight 
to London ; for he was, indeed, down and done for 
— masterful no longer but rather a little abject ; 


256 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be 
looked up to — only some blind one that sat in a 
chair and seemed on the point of crying. She was 
immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him — more 
sorry than she had ever been for any one in her 
life, but not sorry enough to deny his words. So she 
stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because 
she had honestly intended that her journey should 
end triumphantly ; and now she was only filled with 
pity most startlingly distinct from love. 

‘Well?’ said Dick, his face steadily turned 
away. 4 1 never meant to worry you any more. 
What’s the matter?’ 

He was conscious that Maisie was catching her 
breath, but was as unprepared as herself for the 
torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped 
into a chair and was sobbing with her face hidden 
in her hands. 

‘I can’t — I can’t ! ’ she cried desperately. ‘Indeed, 
I can’t. It isn’t my fault. I’m so sorry. Oh, 
Dickie, I’m so sorry.’ 

Dick’s shoulders straightened again, for the words 
lashed like a whip. Still the sobbing continued. 
It is not good to realise that you have failed in the 
hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility 
of making sacrifices. 

‘I do despise myself — indeed I do. But I can’t. 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


257 


Oh, Dickie, yon wouldn’t ask me — would you ? ’ 
wailed Maisie. 

She looked up for a minute, and by chance it 
happened that Dick’s eyes fell on hers. The un- 
shaven face was very white and set, and the lips 
were trying to force themselves into a smile. But 
it was the worn-out eyes that Maisie feared. Her 
Dick had gone blind and left in his place some one 
that she could hardly recognise till he spoke. 

‘Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie? I 
told you how it would be. What’s the use of 
worrying ? For pity’s sake don’t cry like that ; it 
isn’t worth it.’ 

‘You don’t knowhow I hate myself. Oh, Dick, 
help me — help me ! ’ The passion of tears had 
grown beyond her control and was beginning to 
alarm the man. He stumbled forward and put his 
arm round her, and her head fell on his shoulder. 

‘ Hush, dear, hush ! Don’t cry. You’re quite 
right, and you’ve nothing to reproach yourself with 
— you never had. You’re only a little upset by 
the journey, and I don’t suppose you’ve had any 
breakfast. What a brute Torp was to bring you 
over.’ 

‘ I wanted to come. I did indeed,’ she protested. 

‘Very well. And now you’ve come and seen, 
and I’m — immensely grateful. When you’re better 


258 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


you shall go away and get something to eat. What 
sort of a passage did you have coming over ? ’ 

Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the first 
time in her life glad that she had something to lean 
against. Dick patted her on the shoulder tenderly 
but clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her 
shoulder might be. 

She drew herself out of his arms at last and 
waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had felt 
his way to the window to put the width of the 
room between them, and to quiet a little the tumult 
in his heart. 

4 Are you better now ? 9 he said. 

4 Yes, but — don’t you hate me ? 9 

4 1 hate you ? My God ! I ? ’ 

4 Isn’t — isn’t there anything I could do for you, 
then ? I’ll stay here in England to do it, if you like. 
Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes.’ 

4 1 think not, dear. It would be kindest not to 
see me any more, please. I don’t want to seem 
rude, but — don’t you think — perhaps you had 
almost better go now.’ 

He was conscious that he could not bear himself 
as a man if the strain continued much longer. 

4 1 don’t deserve anything else. I’ll go, Dick. 
Oh, I’m so miserable.’ 

‘Nonsense. You’ve nothing to worry about ; I’d 



BESSIE BROOKE’S DAY IN THE STUDIO 







XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


259 


tell you if you had. Wait a moment, dear. I’ve 
got something to give you first. I meant it for you 
ever since this little trouble began. It’s my Melan- 
colia ; she was a beauty when I last saw her. 
You can keep her for me, and if ever you’re poor 
you can sell her. She’s worth a few hundreds at 
any state of the market.’ He groped among his 
canvases. ‘ She’s framed in black. Is this a black 
frame that I have my hand on? There she is. 
What do you think of her ? ’ 

He turned a scarred formless muddle of paint 
towards Maisie, and the eyes strained as though 
they would catch her wonder and surprise. One 
thing and one thing only could she do for him. 

‘ Well ? ’ 

The voice was fuller and more rounded, because 
the man knew he was speaking of his best work. 
Maisie looked at the blur, and a lunatic desire to 
laugh caught her by the throat. But for Dick’s sake 
— whatever this mad blankness might mean — she 
must make no sign. Her voice choked with hard- 
held tears as she answered, still gazing at the wreck — 

‘ Oh, Dick, it is good ! ’ 

He heard the little hysterical gulp and took it 
for tribute. 4 Won’t you have it, then ? I’ll send it 
over to your house if you will.’ 

‘I? Oh yes — thank you. Ha! ha!’ If she 


260 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


did not fly at once the laughter that was worse 
than tears would kill her. She turned and ran, 
choking and blinded, down the staircases that were 
empty of life to take refuge in a cab and go to 
her house across the Parks. There she sat down 
in the dismantled drawing-room and thought 
of Dick in his blindness, useless till the end of 
life, and of herself in her own eyes. Behind the 
sorrow, the shame, and the humiliation, lay fear of 
the cold wrath of the red-haired girl when Maisie 
should return. Maisie had never feared her com- 
panion before. Not until she found herself saying, 
‘ Well, he never asked me,’ did she realise her 
scorn of herself. 

And that is the end of Maisie. 

* * * * * * 

For Dick was reserved more searching torment. 
He could not realise at first that Maisie, whom he 
had ordered to go had left him without a word of 
farewell. He was savagely angry against Torpenhow, 
who had brought upon him this humiliation and 
troubled his miserable peace. Then his dark hour 
came and he was alone with himself and his desires 
to get what help he could from the darkness. The 
queen could do no wrong, but in following the right, 
so far as it served her work, she had wounded her one 
subject more than his own brain would let him know. 


xm 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


261 


‘It’s all I had and I’ve lost it,’ he said, as soon 
as the misery permitted clear thinking. 4 And Torp 
will think that he has been so infernally clever that 
I shan’t have the heart to tell him. I must think 
this out quietly.’ 

4 Hullo ! ’ said Torpenhow, entering the studio 
after Dick had enjoyed two hours of thought. 4 I’m 
back. Are you feeling any better ? ’ 

4 Torp, I don’t know what to say. Come here.’ 
Dick coughed huskily, wondering, indeed, what he 
should say, and how to say it temperately. 

4 What’s the need for saying anything ? Get up 
and tramp.’ Torpenhow was perfectly satisfied. 

They walked up and down as of custom, Tor- 
penhow’s hand on Dick’s shoulder, and Dick buried 
in his own thoughts. 

4 How in the world did you find it all out ? ’ said 
Dick, at last. 

‘You shouldn’t go off your head if you want 
to keep secrets, Dickie. It was absolutely imper- 
tinent on my part ; but if you’d seen me rocketing 
about on a half-trained French troop-horse under 
a blazing sun you’d have laughed. There will be 
a charivari in my rooms to-night. Seven other 
devils ’ 

4 1 know — the row in the Southern Soudan. I 
surprised their councils the other day, and it made 


262 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


me unhappy. Have you fixed your flint to go? 
Who d’you work for ? ’ 

‘ Haven’t signed any contracts yet. I wanted to 
see how your business would turn out.’ 

‘Would you have stayed with me, then, if — 
things had gone wrong ? ’ He put his question 
cautiously. 

‘ Don’t ask me too much. I’m only a man.’ 

‘ You’ve tried to be an angel very successfully.’ 

‘Oh ye — es ! . . . Well, do you attend the 
function to-night? We shall be half screwed 
before the morning. All the men believe the war’s 
a certainty.’ 

‘ I don’t think I will, old man, if it’s all the same 
to you. I’ll stay quiet here.’ 

‘And meditate? I don’t blame you. You 
deserve a good time if ever a man did.’ 

That night there was a tumult on the stairs. The 
correspondents poured in from theatre, dinner, and 
music-hall to Torpenhow’s room that they might 
discuss their plan of campaign in the event of 
military operations being a certainty. Torpenhow, 
the Keneu, and the Nilghai had bidden all the men 
they had worked with to the orgy ; and Mr. Beeton, 
the housekeeper, declared that never before in his 
checkered experience had he seen quite such a fancy 
lot of gentlemen. They waked the chambers with 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


263 


shoutings and song ; and the elder men were quite 
as bad as the younger. For the chances of war 
were in front of them, and all knew what those 
meant. 

Sitting in his own room a little perplexed by 
the noise across the landing, Dick suddenly began 
to laugh to himself. 

‘ When one comes to think of it the situation is 
intensely comic. Maisie’s quite right — poor little 
thing. I didn’t know she could cry like that before; 
but now I know what Torp thinks, I’m sure he’d 
be quite fool enough to stay at home and try to 
console me — if he knew. Besides, it isn’t nice to 
own that you’ve been thrown over like a broken 
chair. I must carry this business through alone — 
as usual. If there isn’t a war, and Torp finds out, 
I shall look foolish, that’s all. If there is a war 
I mustn’t interfere with another man’s chances. 
Business is business, and I want to be alone — 
I want to be alone. What a row they’re mak- 
ing ! ’ 

Somebody hammered at the studio door. 

4 Come out and frolic, Dickie,’ said the Nilghai. 

‘I should like to, but I can’t. I’m not feeling 
frolicsome.’ 

4 Then, I’ll tell the boys and they’ll draw you like 
a badger.’ 


264 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘Please not, old man. On my word, I’d sooner 
be left alone just now.’ 

‘Very good. Can we send anything in to you? 
Fizz, for instance. Cassavetti is beginning to sing 
songs of the Sunny South already.’ 

For one minute Dick considered the proposition 
seriously. 

‘ No, thanks, I’ve a headache already.’ 

4 Virtuous child. That’s the effect of emotion on 
the young. All my congratulations, Dick. I also 
was concerned in the conspiracy for your welfare.’ 

‘ Go to the devil and — oh, send Binkie in here.’ 

The little dog entered on elastic feet, riotous 
from having been made much of all the evening. 
He had helped to sing the choruses; but scarcely 
inside the studio he realised that this was no place 
for tail-wagging, and settled himself on Dick’s 
lap till it was bedtime. Then he went to bed 
with Dick, who counted every hour as it struck, 
and rose in the morning with a painfully clear 
head to receive Torpenhow’s more formal con- 
gratulations and a particular account of the last 
night’s revels. 

‘You aren’t looking very happy for a newly 
accepted man,’ said Torpenhow. 

‘Never mind that — it’s my own affair, and I’m 
all right. Do you really go ? ’ 


XIII 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


265 


4 Yes. With the old Central Southern as usual. 
They wired, and I accepted on better terms than 
before.’ 

4 When do you start ? ’ 

4 The day after to-morrow — for Brindisi.’ 

4 Thank God.’ Dick spoke from the bottom of 
his heart. 

4 W ell, that’s not a pretty way of saying you’re 
glad to get rid of me. But men in your condition 
are allowed to be selfish.’ 

4 1 didn’t mean that. Will you get a hundred 
pounds cashed for me before you leave?’ 

‘That’s a slender amount for housekeeping, isn’t 
it?’ 

4 Oh, it’s only for — marriage expenses.’ 

Torpenhow brought him the money, counted it 
out in fives and tens, and carefully put it away in 
the writing table. 

‘Now I suppose I shall have to listen to his 
ravings about his girl until I go. Heaven send us 
patience with a man in love ! ’ said he to himself. 

But never a word did Dick say of Maisie or 
marriage. He hung in the doorway of Torpenhow’s 
room when the latter was packing and asked in- 
numerable questions about the coming campaign, 
till Torpenhow began to feel annoyed. 

4 You’re a secretive animal, Dickie, and you con- 


266 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. XIII 


sume your own smoke, don’t you ? ’ he said on the 
last evening. 

‘I — I suppose so. By the way, how long do 
you think this war will last ? ’ 

‘Days, weeks, or months. One can never tell. 
It may go on for years.’ 

‘ I wish I were going.’ 

4 Good heavens ! You’re the most unaccountable 
creature ! Hasn’t it occurred to you that you’re 
going to be married — thanks to me?’ 

‘Of course, yes. Pm going to be married — so I 
am. Going to be married. I’m awfully grateful 
to you. Haven’t I told you that ? ’ 

‘You might be going to be hanged by the look 
of you,’ said Torpenhow. 

And the next day Torpenhow bade him good-bye 
and left him to the loneliness he had so much 
desired. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him, 

Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, 

Yet at the last, with his masters around him, 

He of the Faith spoke as master to slave ; 

Yet at the last, tho’ the Kafirs had maimed him, 

Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, — 

Yet at the last, tho’ the darkness had fclaimed him, 

He called upon Allah and died a believer. 

— Kizzilbashi. 

‘ Beg your pardon, Mr. Heldar, but — but isn’t 
nothin’ going to happen?’ said Mr. BeetOn. 

‘ No ! ’ Dick had just waked to another morn- 
ing of blank despair and his temper was of the 
shortest. 

‘’Tain’t my regular business, o’ course, sir; and 
what I say is, “Mind you own business and let 
other people mind theirs ; ” but just before Mr. 
Torpenhow went away he give me to understand, 
like, that you might be moving into a house of your 
own, so to speak — a sort of house with rooms up- 
stairs and downstairs where you’d be better attended 

267 


268 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP 


to, though I try to act just by all our tenants. 
Don’t I?’ 

‘ Ah ! That must have been a mad-house. I 
shan’t trouble you to take me there yet. Get me 
my breakfast, please, and leave me alone.’ 

‘ I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, sir, but 
you know I hope that as far as a man can I tries to 
do the proper thing by all the gentlemen in chambers 
— and more particular those whose lot is hard — such 
as you, for instance, Mr. Heldar. You likes soft-roe 
bloater, don’t you ? Soft-roe bloaters is scarcer than 
hard-roe, but what I says is, “ Never mind a little 
extra trouble so long as you gives satisfaction to the 
tenants. ” ’ 

Mr. Beeton withdrew and left Dick to , himself. 
Torpenhow had been long away ; there was no more 
rioting in the chambers, and Dick had settled down 
to his new life, which he was weak enough to 
consider nothing better than death. 

It is hard to live alone in the dark, confusing 
the day and night ; dropping to sleep through sheer 
weariness at mid-day, and rising restless in the chill 
of the dawn. At first Dick, on his awakenings, 
would grope along the corridors of the chambers till 
he heard some one snore. Then he would know 
that the day had not yet come, and return wearily 
to his bedroom. Later he learned not to stir till 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


269 


there was a noise and movement in the house and 
Mr. Beeton advised him to get up. Once dressed — 
and dressing, now that Torpenhow was away, was a 
lengthy business, because collars, ties, and the like 
hid themselves in far corners of the room, and search 
meant head-beating against chairs and trunks — * 
once dressed, there was nothing whatever to do 
except to sit still and brood till the three daily 
meals came. Centuries separated breakfast from 
lunch and lunch from dinner, and though a man 
prayed for hundreds of years that his mind might 
be taken from him, God would never hear. Rather 
the mind was quickened and the revolving thoughts 
ground against each other as millstones grind when 
there is no corn between ; and yet the brain would 
not wear out and give him rest. It continued to 
think, at length, with imagery and all manner of 
reminiscences. It recalled Maisie and past success, 
reckless travels b}^ land and sea, the glory of doing 
work and feeling that it was good, and suggested all 
that might have happened had the eyes only been 
faithful to their duty. When thinking ceased 
through sheer weariness, there poured into Dick’s 
soul tide on tide of overwhelming, purposeless fear 
— dread of starvation always, terror lest the unseen 
ceiling should crush down upon him, fear of fire in 
the chambers and a louse’s death in red flame, and 


270 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


agonies of fiercer horror that had nothing to do with 
any fear of death. Then Dick bowed his head, and 
clutching the arms of his chair fought with his 
sweating self till the tinkle of plates told him that 
something to eat was being set before him. 

Mr. Beeton would bring the meal when he had 
time to spare, and Dick learned to hang upon his 
speech, which dealt with badly fitted gas-plugs, 
waste-pipes out of repair, little tricks for driving 
picture-nails into walls, and the sins of the char- 
woman or the housemaids. In the lack of better 
things the small gossip of a servant’s hall becomes 
immensely interesting, and the screwing of a washer 
on a tap an event to be talked over for days. 

Once or twice a week, too, Mr. Beeton would 
take Dick out with him when he went marketing 
in the morning to haggle with tradesmen over fish, 
lamp-wicks, mustard, tapioca, and so forth, while 
Dick rested his weight first on one foot and then 
on the other and played aimlessly with the tins and 
string-ball on the counter. Then they would 
perhaps meet one of Mr. Beeton’s friends, and Dick, 
standing aside a little, would hold his peace till 
Mr. Beeton was willing to go on again. 

The life did not increase his self-respect. He 
abandoned shaving as a dangerous exercise, and 
being shaved in a barber’s shop meant exposure of 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


271 


his infirmity. He could not see that his cldthes 
were properly brushed, and since he had never 
taken any care of his personal Appearance he 
became every known variety of sloven. A blind 
man cannot eat with cleanliness till he has been 
some months used to the darkness. If he demand 
attendance and grow angry at the want of if, he 
must assert himself and stand upright. Then the 
meanest menial can see that he is blind and, there- 
fore, of no consequence. A wise man will keep his 
eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement he 
imty pick coal lump by luirip out of the Scuttle 
with the tongs and pile it in a little heap in the 
fender, keeping count of the lumps, which must all 
be put back again, one by one and Very carefully. 
He may set himself sums if he cares to work them 
out; he may talk to himself or to the cat if she 
chooses to visit him ; and if his trade has been that 
of an artist, he may sketch in the air with his 
forefinger ; but that is too much like drawing a pig 
with the eyes shut. He may go to his bookshelves 
and count his books, ranging them in order, of their 
size ; or to his wardrobe And count his shirts, laying 
them in piles of two or three on the bed, As they 
suffer from frayed cuffs or lost buttons^ Even this 
entertainment wearies after a time ; and all the times 
are very, very long. 


272 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Dick was allowed to sort a tool-chest where Mr. 
Beeton kept hammers, taps and nuts, lengths of gas- 
pipes, oil-bottles, and string. 

‘If I don’t have everything just where I know 
where to look for it, why, then, I can’t find anything 
when I do want it. You’ve no idea, sir, the amount 
of little things that these chambers uses up,’ said 
Mr. Beeton. Fumbling at the handle of the door 
as he went out : ‘ It’s hard on you, sir, I do think 
it’s hard on you. Ain’t you going to do anything, 
sir ? ’ 

‘ I’ll pay my rent and messing. Isn’t that 
enough ? ’ 

‘ I wasn’t doubting for a moment that you 
couldn’t pay your way, sir ; but I ’ave often said to 
my wife, “ It’s ’ard on ’im because it isn’t as if he 
was an old man, nor yet a middle-aged one, but 
quite a young gentleman. That's where it comes 
so ’ard.” ’ 

‘ I suppose so,’ said Dick, absently. This par- 
ticular nerve through long battering had ceased to 
feel — much. 

‘ I was thinking,’ continued Mr. Beeton, still 
making as if to go, ‘ that you might like to hear my 
boy Alf read you the papers sometimes of an 
evening. He do read beautiful, seeing he’s only 
nine.’ 


XIV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 273 

4 1 should be very grateful,’ said Dick. 4 Only 
let me make it worth his while.’ 

4 We wasn’t thinking of that, sir, but of course 
it’s in your own ’ands ; but only to ’ear Alf sing 
44 A Boy’s best Friend is ’is Mother ! ” Ah ! ’ 

4 I’ll hear him sing that too. Let him come in 
this evening with the newspapers.’ 

Alf was not a nice child, being puffed up with 
many school-board certificates for good conduct, 
and inordinately proud of his singing. Mr. Beeton 
remained, beaming, while the child wailed his way 
through a song of some eight eight-line verses in 
the usual whine of the young Cockney, and, after 
compliments, left him to read Dick the foreign 
telegrams. Ten minutes later Alf returned to his 
parents rather pale and scared. 

4 ’E said ’e couldn’t stand it no more,’ he 
explained. 

4 He never said you read badly, Alf?’ Mrs. 
Beeton spoke. 

4 No. ’E said I read beautiful. Said ’e never 
’eard any one read like that, but ’e said ’e couldn’t 
abide the stuff in the papers.’ 

4 P’raps he’s lost some money in the Stocks. 
Were you readin’ him about Stocks, Alf?’ 

4 No ; it was all about fightin’ out there where 
the soldiers is gone — a great long piece with all the 


274 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


lines close together and very hard wofds in it. ’E 
give me ’arf a crown because I read so well. And 
’e says the next time there’s anything ’e wants read 
Vll send for me.’ 

4 That’s good hearing, but I do think for all the 
half-crown — put it into the kicking- donkey money- 
box, Alf, and let me see you do it — he might have 
kept you loiiger. Why, he couldn’t have begun to 
understand how beautiful you read.’ 

4 He’s bfest left to hisself — gentlemen always are 
when they’re downhearted,’ said Mr. Beeton. 

Alf’s rigorously limited powers of compre- 
hending Torpenhow’s special correspondence had 
waked the devil of unrest in Dick. He could hear, 
through the boy’s nasal chant, the camels grunting 
in the squares behind the soldiers outside Suakin ; 
could hear the men swearing and chaffing across the 
cooking pots, and could smell the acrid wood-smoke 
as it drifted ovdr the camp before the wind of the 
desert. 

That night he prayed to God that his mind 
might be taken from him, offering for proof that 
he was worthy of this favour the fact that he had 
not shot himself long ago. That prayer was not 
answered, and indeed Dick knew in his heart of 
hearts that only a lingering sense of humour and no 
special virtue had kept him alive. Suicide, he had 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


275 


persuaded himself, would be a ludicrous insult to 
the gravity of the situation as well as a weak-kneed 
confession of fear. 

‘Just for the fun of the thing,’ he said to the 
cat, who had taken Binkie’s place in his establish- 
ment, ‘ I should like to know how long this is 
going to last. I can live for a year on the hundred 
pounds Torp cashed for me. I must have two or 
three thousand at least at the Bank — twenty or 
thirty years more provided for, that is to say. 
Then I fall back on my hundred and twenty a year, 
which will be more by that time. Let’s consider. 
Twenty-five — thirty-five — a man’s in his prime 
then, they say — forty -five — a middle-aged man just 
entering politics — fifty-five — “died at the compara- 
tively early age of fifty-five,” according to the news- 
papers. Bah ! How these Christians funk death ! 
Sixty-five — we’re only getting on in years. Seventy- 
five is just possible, though. Great hell, cat O ! 
fifty years more of solitary confinement in the 
dark ! You’ll die, and Beeton will die, and Torp 
will die, and Mai — everybody else will die, but 
I shall be alive and kicking with nothing to do. 
I’m very sorry for myself. I should like some one 
else to be sorry for me. Evidently I’m not going 
mad before I die, but the pain’s just as bad as ever. 
Some day when you’re vivisected, cat 0 I they’ll tie 


276 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


yon down on a little table and cut you open — but 
don’t be afraid ; they’ll take precious good care that 
you don’t die. You’ll live, and you’ll be very sorry 
then that you weren’t sorry for me. Perhaps Torp 
will come back or ... I wish I could go to Torp 
and the Nilghai, even though I were in their way.’ 

Pussy left the room before the speech was ended, 
and Alf, as he entered, found Dick addressing the 
empty hearth-rug. 

4 There’s a letter for you, sir,’ he said. 4 Perhaps 
you’d like me to read it.’ 

4 Lend it to me for a minute and I’ll tell you.’ 

The outstretched hand shook just a little and the 
voice was not over-steady. It was within the limits 
of human possibility that — that was no letter from 
Maisie. He knew the heft of three closed enve- 
lopes only too well. It was a foolish hope that the 
girl should write to him, for he did not realise 
that there is a wrong which admits of no repara- 
tion though the evildoer may with tears and the 
heart’s best love strive to mend all. It is best to 
forget that wrong whether it be caused or endured, 
since it is as remediless as bad work once put 
forward. 

4 Read it, then,’ said Dick, and Alf began intoning 
according to the rules of the Board School — 

4 44 1 could have given you love , I could have given 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


277 


you loyalty, such as you never dreamed of. Do you 
suppose I cared what you were ? But you chose to 
whistle everything down the wind for nothing. My 
only excuse for you is that you are so young.” 

‘ That’s all,’ he said, returning the paper to be 
dropped into the fire. 

‘ What was in the letter ? ’ asked Mrs. Beeton, 
when Alf returned. 

‘ I don’t know. I think it was a circular or a 
tract about not whistlin’ at everything when you’re 
young.’ 

I must have stepped on something when I was 
alive and walking about and it has bounced up and 
hit me. God help it, whatever it is — unless it was 
all a joke. But I don’t know any one who’d take 
the trouble to play a joke on me. . . . Love and 
loyalty for nothing. It sounds tempting enough. 
I wonder whether I have lost anything really ? ’ 

Dick considered for a long time but could not 
remember when or how he had put himself in the 
way of winning these trifles at a woman’s hands. 

Still, the letter as touching on matters that he 
preferred not to think about stung him into a fit of 
frenzy that lasted for a day and night. When his 
heart was so full of despair that it would hold no 
more, body and soul together seemed to be dropping 
without check through the darkness. Then came 


278 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


fear of darkness and desperate attempts to reach the 
light again. But there was no light to be reached. 
When that agony had left him sweating and breath- 
less, the downward flight would recommence till the 
gathering torture of it spurred him into another 
fight as hopeless as the first. Followed some few 
minutes of sleep in which he dreamed that he saw. 
Then the procession of events would repeat itself 
till he was utterly worn out and the brain took up 
its everlasting consideration of Maisie and might- 
have-beens. 

At the end of everything Mr. Beeton came to 
his room and volunteered to take him out. ‘Not 
marketing this time, but hue’ll go into the Parks 
if you like.’ 

4 Be damned if I do,’ quoth Dick. 4 Keep to the 
streets and walk up and down. I like to hear the 
people round me.’ 

This was not altogether true. The blind in the 
first stages of their infirniity dislike those who can 
move with a free stride and unlifted arms — but 
Dick had no earthly desire to go to the Parks. 
OncC and only once since Maisie had shut the door 
he had gone there under Alf’s tharge. Alf forgot 
him and fished for minnows in the Serpentine with 
some companiohs. Aftei’ half an hour’s waiting 
Dick, almost weeping with rage and wrath, caught a 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


279 


passer-by, who introduced him to a friendly police- 
man, who led him to a four-wheeler opposite the 
Albert Hall. He never told Mr. Beeton of Alf’s 
forgetfulness, but . . . this was not the manner 
in which he was Used to walk the Parks aforetime. 

4 What streets would you like to walk down, 
then ? ’ said Mr. Beeton, sympathetically. His own 
ideas of a riotous holiday meant picnicking on the 
grass of the Green Park with his family, and half 
a dozen paper bags full of food. 

■ Keep to the river,’ said Dick, and they kept to 
the river, and the rush of it was in his ears till they 
came to Blackfriars Bridge and struck thence on 
to the Waterloo Road, Mr. Beeton explaining the 
beauties of the scenery as he went on. 

4 And walking on the other side of the pavement,’ 
said he, 4 unless I’m much mistaken, is the young 
woman that used to come to ytfur rooms to be 
drawed. I never forgets a face and I never re- 
members a name, except paying tenants, o’ course ! ’ 
4 Stop her,’ said Dick. 4 It’s Bessie Broke. Tell 
her I’d like to speak to her again. Quick, man ! ’ 
Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses of 
the omnibuses and arrested Bessie then on her way 
northward. She recognised him as the man in 
authority who used to glare at her when she passed 
up Dick’s staircase, and her first impulse was to run. 


280 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘Wasn’t yon Mr. Heldar’s model?’ said Mr. 
Beeton, planting himself in front of her. ‘You 
was. He’s on the other side of the road and he’d 
like to see you.’ 

‘Why?’ said Bessie, faintly. She remembered 
— indeed had never for long forgotten — an affair 
connected with a newly finished picture. 

‘Because he has asked me to do so, and because 
he’s most particular blind.’ 

‘ Drunk ? ’ 

‘ No. ’Orspital blind. He can’t see. That’s 
him over there.’ 

Dick was leaning against the parapet of the 
bridge as Mr. Beeton pointed him out — a stub- 
bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty magenta- 
coloured neckcloth outside an unbrushed coat. 
There was nothing to fear from such an one. 
Even if he chased her, Bessie thought, he could 
not follow far. She crossed over, and Dick’s face 
lighted up. It was long since a woman of any 
kind had taken the trouble to speak to him. 

‘I hope you’re well, Mr. Heldar?’ said Bessie, a 
little puzzled. Mr. Beeton stood by with the air 
of an ambassador and breathed responsibly. 

‘I’m very well indeed, and, by Jove! I’m glad to 
see — hear you, I mean, Bess. You never thought it 
worth while to turn up and see us again after you 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


281 


got your money. I don’t know why you should. 
Are you going anywhere in particular just now? ’ 

4 1 was going for a walk,’ said Bessie. 

‘Not the old business?’ Dick spoke under his 
breath. 

4 Lor, no ! I paid my premium ’ — Bessie was 
very proud of that word — 4 for a barmaid, sleeping 
in, and I’m at the bar now quite respectable. 
Indeed I am.’ 

Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe 
in the loftiness of human nature. Therefore he 
dissolved himself like a mist and returned to his 
gas-plugs without a word of apology. Bessie 
watched the flight with a certain uneasiness ; but 
so long as Dick appeared to be ignorant of the harm 
that had been done to him . . . 

4 It’s hard work pulling the beer-handles,’ she 
went on, 4 and they’ve got one of them penny-in-the- 
slot cash-machines, so if you get wrong by a penny 
at the end of the day — but then I don’t believe the 
machinery is right. Do you ? ’ 

4 I’ve only seen it work. Mr. Beeton.’ 

4 He’s gone.’ 

4 I’m afraid I must ask you to help me home, 
then. I’ll make it worth your while. You see.’ 
The sightless eyes turned towards her and Bessie 


saw. 


282 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘It isn’t taking yon out of your way?’ he said 
hesitatingly. ‘ I can ask a policeman if it is.’ 

‘Not at all. I come on at seven and I’m off 
at four. That’s easy hours.’ 

‘Good God ! — but I’m on all the time. I wish 
I had some work to do too. Let’s go home* Bess.’ 

He turned and cannoned into a man on the 
sidewalk, recoiling with an oath. Bessie took his 
arm and said nothing — as she had said nothing 
when he had ordered her to turn her face a little 
more to the light. They walked for some time in 
silence, the girl steering him deftly through the 
crowd. 

‘And where’s — where’s Mr. Torpenhow?’ she 
inquired at last. 

‘ He has gone away to the desert.’ 

‘ Where’s that ? ’ 

Dick pointed to the right. ‘ East — out of the 
mouth of the river,’ said he. ‘Then west* then 
south* and then east again* all along the under-side 
of Europe. Then south again, God knows how 
far.’ The explanation did not enlighten Bessie in 
the least, but she held her tongue and looked to 
Dick’s path till they came to the chambers. 

‘We’ll have tea and muffins,’ he said joyously. 
‘ I can’t tell you, Bessie, how glad I am to find you 
again. What made you go away so suddenly ? ’ 


XIV THE LIGHT THA? FAILED 283 

4 1 didn’t think you’d want me any more,’ she 
said, emboldened by his ignorance. 

4 1 didn’t, as a matter of fact — but afterwards — 
At any rate I’m glad you’ve come. You know the 
stairs.’ 

So Bessie led him home to his own place — there 
was no one to hinder — and shut the door of the 
studio. 

4 What a mess ! ’ was her first word. 4 All these 
things haven’t been looked after for months and 
months.’ 

4 No, only weeks, Bess. You can’t expect them 
to care.’ 

4 1 don’t know what you expect them to 4 p? 
They ought to know what you’ve paid them for. 
The dust’s just awful. It’s all over the easel.’ 

4 1 don’t use it much now.’ 

4 All over the pictures and the door, and all 
over your coat. I’d like to speak tq them house- 
maids. ’ 

‘Ring for tea, then.’ Dick felt his way to the 
one chair he used by custom. 

Bessie saw the action and, as far as in her lay, was 
touched. But there remained always a keen sense 
of new-found superiority, and it was in her voice 
when she spoke. 

4 How long have you been }ike this ? ’ she said 


284 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


wrathfully, as though the blindness were some fault 
of the housemaids. 

‘How?’ 

4 As you are.’ 

‘The day after you went away with the check, 
almost as soon as my picture was finished ; I hardly 
saw her alive.’ 

‘ Then they’ve been cheating you ever since, that’s 
all. I know their nice little ways.’ 

A woman may love one man and despise another, 
but on general feminine principles she will do 
her best to save the man she despises from being 
defrauded. Her loved one can look to himself, 
but the other man, being obviously an idiot, needs 
protection. 

‘I don’t think Mr. Beeton cheats much,’ said 
Dick. Bessie was flouncing up and down the room, 
and he was conscious of a keen sense of enjoyment 
as he heard the swish of her skirts and the light 
step between. 

‘Tea and muffins,’ she said shortly, when the 
ring at the bell was answered ; ‘ two teaspoonfuls 
and one over for the pot. I don’t want the old 
teapot that was here when I used to come. It 
don’t draw. Get another.’ 

The housemaid went away scandalised, and 
Dick chuckled. Then he began to cough as Bessie 











. 







* 















. • 









/ 























YOU’LL HAVE TO MAKE THE MOST OF ME 




XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


285 


banged up and down the studio disturbing the 
dust. 

4 What are you trying to do ? ’ 

‘Put things straight. This is like unfurnished 
lodgings. How could you let it go so ? ’ 

4 How could I help it ? Dust away.’ 

She dusted furiously, and in the midst of all the 
pother entered Mrs. Beeton. Her husband on his 
return had explained the situation, winding up with 
the peculiarly felicitous proverb, 4 Do unto others as 
you would be done by.’ She had descended to put 
into her place the person who demanded muffins 
and an uncracked teapot as though she had a right 
to both. 

4 Muffins ready yet ? ’ said Bess, still dusting. 
She was no longer a drab of the streets but a young 
lady who, thanks to Dick’s check, had paid her 
premium and was entitled to pull beer-handles with 
the best. Being neatly dressed in black she did 
not hesitate to face Mrs. Beeton, and there passed 
between the two women certain regards that Dick 
would have appreciated. The situation adjusted 
itself by eye. Bessie had won, and Mrs. Beeton 
returned to cook muffins and make scathing remarks 
about models, hussies, trollops, and the like, to her 
husband. 

‘There’s nothing to be got of interfering with 


286 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


him, Liza,’ he said. ‘Alf, you go along into the 
street to play. When he isn’t crossed he’s as kindly 
as kind, but when he’s crossed he’s the devil and 
all. We took too many little things out of his 
rooms since he was blind to be that particular 
about what he does. They ain’t no objects to a 
blind man, of course, but if it was to come into 
court we’d get the sack. Yes, I did introduce him 
to that girl because I’m a feelin’ man myself.’ 

4 Much too feelin’ ! ’ Mrs. Beeton slapped the 
muffins into the dish, and thought of comely house- 
maids long since dismissed on suspicion. 

4 1 ain’t ashamed of it, and it isn’t for us to 
judge him hard so long as he pays quiet and regular 
as he do. I know how to manage young gentlemen, 
you know how to cook for them, and what I says 
is, let each stick to his own business and then there 
won’t be any trouble. Take them muffins down, 
Liza, and be sure you have no words with that young 
woman. His lot is cruel hard, and if he’s crossed 
he do swear worse than any one I’ve ever served.’ 

4 That’s a little better,’ said Bessie, sitting down 
to the tea. ‘You needn’t wait, thank you, Mrs. 
Beeton.’ 

4 1 had no intention of doing such, I do assure 
you.’ 

Bessie made no answer whatever. This, she 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


287 


knew, was the way in which real ladies routed their 
foes, and when one is a barmaid at a first-class 
public-house one may become a real lady at ten 
minutes’ notice. 

Her eyes fell on Dick opposite her and she was 
both shocked and displeased. There were droppings 
of food all down the front of his coat ; the mouth 
under the ragged ill-grown beard drooped sullenly ; 
the forehead was lined and contracted ; and on the 
lean temples the hair was a dusty indeterminate 
colour that might or might not have been called 
gray. The utter misery and self-abandonment of 
the man appealed to her, and at the bottom of her 
heart lay the wicked feeling that he was humbled 
and brought low who had once humbled her. 

4 Oh ! it is good to hear you moving about,’ said 
Dick, rubbing his hands. ‘Tell us all about your 
bar successes, Bessie, and the way you live now.’ 

‘Never mind that. I’m quite respectable, as 
you’d see by looking at me. You don’t seem to 
live too well. What made you go blind that sudden ? 
Why isn’t there any one to look after you ? ’ 

Dick was too thankful for the sound of her voice 
to resent the tone of it. 

‘I was cut across the head a long time ago, and 
that ruined my eyes. I don’t suppose anybody 
thinks it worth while to look after me any more. 


288 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Why should they? — and Mr. Beeton really does 
everything I want.’ 

‘ Don’t you know any gentlemen and ladies, then, 
while you was — well ? ’ 

‘A few; but I don’t care to have them looking 
at me.’ 

‘I suppose that’s why you’ve growed a beard. 
Take it off, it don’t become you.’ 

‘Good gracious, child, do you imagine that I 
think of what becomes me these days ? ’ 

‘You ought. Get that taken off before I come 
here again. I suppose I can come, can’t I ? ’ 

‘ I’d be only too grateful if you did. I don’t 
think I treated you very well in the old days. I 
used to make you angry.’ 

‘Very angry, you did.’ 

‘ I’m sorry for it, then. Come and see me when 
you can and as often as you can. God knows, there 
isn’t a soul in the world to take that trouble except 
you and Mr. Beeton.’ 

‘A lot of trouble he's taking and she too.’ This 
with a toss of the head. ‘ They’ve let you do any- 
how and they haven’t done anything for you. I’ve 
only to look to see that much. I’ll come, and I’ll 
be glad to come, but you must go and be shaved, 
and you must get some other clothes — those ones 
aren’t fit to be seen.’ 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


289 


‘ I have heaps somewhere,’ he said helplessly. 

‘I know you have. Tell Mr. Beeton to give 
you a new suit and I’ll brush it and keep it 
clean. You may be as blind as a barn-door, Mr. 
Heldar, but it doesn’t excuse you looking like a 
sweep. ’ 

4 Do I look like a sweep, then ? ’ 

‘Oh, I’m sorry for you. I’m that sorry for 
you ! ’ she cried impulsively, and took Dick’s hands. 
Mechanically, he lowered his head as if to kiss — 
she was the only woman who had taken pity on 
him, and he was not too proud for a little pity now. 
She stood up to go. 

4 Nothing o’ that kind till you look more like a 
gentleman. It’s quite easy when you get shaved, 
and some clothes.’ 

He could hear her drawing on her gloves and 
rose to say good-bye. She passed behind him, kissed 
him audaciously on the back of the neck, and ran 
away as swiftly as on the day when she had de- 
stroyed the Melancolia. 

‘To think of me kissing Mr. Heldar,’ she said to 
herself, ‘after all he’s done to me and all ! Well, I’m 
sorry for him, and if he was shaved he wouldn’t be 
so bad to look at, but . . . Oh them Beetons, how 
shameful they’ve treated him ! I know Beeton’s 
wearing his shirt on his back to-day just as well 


290 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


as if I’d aired it. To-morrow, I’ll see ... I wonder 
if he has much of his own. It might be worth 
more than the bar — I wouldn’t have to do any 
work — and just as respectable if no one knew.’ 

Dick was not grateful to Bessie for her parting 
gift. He was acutely conscious of it in the nape of 
his neck throughout the night, but it seemed, among 
yery many other things, to enforce the wisdom of 
getting shaved. He was shaved accordingly in the 
morning, and felt the better for it. A fresh suit 
of clothes, white linen, and the knowledge that some 
one in the world said that she took an interest in 
his personal appearance made him carry himself 
almost upright ; for the brain was relieved for a 
while from thinking of Maisie, who, under other 
circumstances, might have given that kiss and a 
million others. 

4 Let us consider,’ said he, after lunch. 4 The girl 
can’t care, and it’s a toss-up whether she comes again 
or not, but if money can buy her to look after me 
she shall be bought. Nobody else in the world 
would take the trouble, and I can make it worth her 
while. She’s a child of the gutter holding brevet 
rank as a barmaid; so she shall have everything 
she wants if she’ll only come and talk and look 
after me.’ He rubbed his newly shorn chin and 
began to perplex himself with the thought of her 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


291 


not coming. 4 1 suppose I did look rather a sweep,’ 
he went on. 4 1 had no reason to look otherwise. I 
knew things dropped on my clothes, but it didn’t 
matter. It would be cruel if she didn’t come. 
She must. Maisie came once, and that was enough 
for her. She Was quite right. She had something 
to work for. This creature has only beer-handles 
to pull, unless she has deluded some young man 
into keeping company with her. Fancy being 
cheated for the sake of a counter-juinper ! We’re 
falling pretty low.’ 

Something cried aloud within him : — This will 
hurt more than anything that has gone before. It 
will recall and remind and suggest and tantalise, 
and in the end drive you iliad. 

4 1 know it, I know it ! ’ Dick cried, clenching his 
hands despairingly ; 4 but, good heavens! is a poor 
blind beggar never to get anything out of his life 
except three meals a day and a greasy waistcoat? 
I wish she’d cotne.’ 

Early in the afternoon time she came, because 
there was no young man in her life just then, and 
she thought of material advantages which Would 
allow her to be idle for the rest of her days. 

4 1 shouldn’t have known you,’ she said approv- 
ingly. ‘You look as you used to look — a gentle- 
man that was proud of himself.’ 


292 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ Don’t yon think I deserve another kiss, then ? ’ 
said Dick, flushing a little. 

4 Maybe — but you won’t get it yet. Sit down 
and let’s see what I can do for you. I’m certain 
sure Mr. Beeton cheats you, now that you can’t go 
through the housekeeping books every month. Isn’t 
that true ? ’ 

‘You’d better come and housekeep for me then, 
Bessie.’ 

‘ Couldn’t do it in these chambers — you know 
that as well as I do.’ 

‘ I know, but we might go somewhere else, if you 
thought it worth your while.’ 

‘I’d try to look after you, anyhow ; but I 
shouldn’t care to have to work for both of us.’ 
This was tentative. 

Dick laughed. 

‘Do you remember where I used to keep my 
bank-book? ’ said he. ‘ Torp took it to be balanced 
just before he went away. Look and see.’ 

‘It was generally under the tobacco- jar. Ah!’ 

‘Well?’ 

‘ Oh ! Four thousand two hundred and ten 
pounds nine shillings and a penny ! Oh my ! ’ 

‘You can have the penny. That’s not bad for 
one year’s work. Is that and a hundred and twenty 
pounds a year good enough ? ’ 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


293 


The idleness and the pretty clothes were almost 
within her reach now, but she must, by being house- 
wifely, show that she deserved them. 

‘Yes; but you’d have to move, and if we took 
an inventory, I think we’d find that Mr. Beeton has 
been prigging little things out of the rooms here and 
there. They don’t look as full as they used.’ 

‘Never mind, we’ll let him have them. The only 
thing I’m particularly anxious to take away is that 
picture I used you for — when you used to swear at 
me. We’ll pull out of this place, Bess, and get 
away as far as ever we can.’ 

‘ Oh yes,’ she said uneasily. 

‘ I don’t know where I can go to get away from 
myself, but I’ll try, and you shall have all the pretty 
frocks that you care for. You’ll like that. Give 
me that kiss now, Bess. Ye gods ! it’s good to put 
one’s arm round a woman’s waist again.’ 

Then came the fulfilment of the prophecy within 
the brain. If his arm were thus round Maisie’s 
waist and a kiss had just been given and taken be- 
tween them, — why then . . . He pressed the girl 
more closely to himself because the pain whipped 
him. She was wondering how to explain a little 
accident to the Melancolia. At any rate, if this 
man really desired the solace of her company — and 
certainly he would relapse into his original slough if 


294 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAIN 


she withdrew it — he would not be more than just a 
little vexed. It would be delightful at least to see 
what would happen, and by her teachings it was good 
for a man to stand in certain awe of his companion. 

She laughed nervously, and slipped out of his 
reach. 

‘I shouldn’t worrit about that picture if I was 
you,’ she began, in the hope of turning his attention. 

4 It’s at the back of all my canvases somewhere. 
Find it, Bess ; you know it as well as I do.’ 

‘ I know — but ’ 

‘But what? You’ve wit enough to manage the 
sale of it to a dealer. Women haggle much better 
than ipen. It might be a matter of eight or pine 
hundred pounds to — to us. I simply didn’t like 
to think about it for a long time. It was jpixed 
up with my life so. — But we’ll cover up our tracks 
and get rid of everything, eh ? Make a fresh start 
from the beginning, Bess.’ 

Then she began to repent very much indeed, 
because she knew the value of money. Still, it was 
probable that the blind man was overestimating the 
value of his work. Gentlemen, she knew, were 
absurdly particular about their things. She giggled 
as a nervous housemaid giggles when she tries to 
explain the breakage of a pipe. 

‘ I’m very sorry, but you remember I was — I 


XIV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 295 

was angry with you before Mr. Torpenhow went 
away ? ’ 

‘You were very angry, child ; and on my word I 
think you had some right to be.’ 

‘Then I — but aren’t you sure Mr. Torpenhow 
didn’t tell you ? ’ 

‘Tell me what? Good gracious, what are you 
making such a fuss about when you might just as 
well be giving me another kiss ? ’ 

He was beginning to learn, not for the first time 
in his experience, that kissing is a cumulative 
poison. The more you get of it, the more you 
want. Bessie gave the kiss promptly, whispering, 
as she did so, * I was so angry I rubbed out that 
picture with the turpentine. You aren’t angry, 
are you ? ’ 

‘What? Say that again.’ The man’s hand had 
closed on her wrist. 

‘I rubbed it out with turps and the knife,’ 
faltered Bessie. ‘I thought you’d only have to do 
it over again. You did do it over again, didn’t 
you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you’re hurting me.’ 

‘ Isn’t there anything left of the thing ? ’ 

‘N’nothing that looks like anything. I’m sorry 
— I didn’t know you’d take on about it ; I only 
meant to do it in fun. You aren’t going to hit 
me?’ 


296 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘Hit yon! No! Let’s think.’ 

He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but 
stood staring at the carpet. Then he shook his 
head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of 
the stock-whip across his nose warns him back to 
the path to the shambles that he would escape. 
For weeks he had forced himself not to think of 
the Melancolia, because she was a part of his dead 
life. With Bessie’s return and certain new pros- 
pects that had developed themselves, the Melancolia 

— lovelier in his imagination than she had ever 
been on canvas — reappeared. By her aid he 
might have procured more money wherewith to 
amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another 
taste of an almost forgotten success. Now, thanks 
to a vicious little housemaid’s folly, there was 
nothing to look for — not even the hope that he 
might some day take an abiding interest in the 
housemaid. Worst of all, he had been made to 
appear ridiculous in Maisie’s eyes. A woman will 
forgive the man who has ruined her life’s work so 
long as he gives her love : a man may forgive 
those who ruin the love of his life, but he will 
never forgive the destruction of his work. 

‘Tck — tck — tck,’ said Dick between his teeth, 
and then laughed softly. ‘ It’s an omen, Bessie, and 

— a good many things considered, it serves me right 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


297 


for doing what I have done. By Jove ! that 
accounts for Maisie’s running away. She must 
have thought me perfectly mad — small blame to 
her ! The whole picture ruined, isn’t it so ? What 
made you do it ? ’ 

4 Because I was that angry. I’m not angry now 
— I’m awful sorry.’ 

4 1 wonder. — It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I’m to 
blame for making the mistake.’ 

4 What mistake ? ’ 

4 Something you wouldn’t understand, dear. 
Great heavens ! to think that a little piece of dirt 
like you could throw me out of my stride ! ’ Dick 
was talking to himself as Bessie tried to shake off 
his grip on her wrist. 

4 1 ain’t a piece of dirt, and you shouldn’t call me 
so ! I did it ’cause I hated you, and I’m only sorry 
now ’cause you’re — ’cause you’re ’ 

4 Exactly — because I’m blind. There’s nothing 
like tact in little things.’ 

Bessie began to sob. She did not like being 
shackled against her will ; she was afraid of the 
blind face and the look upon it, and was sorry 
too that her great revenge had only made Dick 
laugh. 

4 Don’t cry,’ he said, and took her into his arms. 
4 You only did what you thought right.’ 


298 


The light that failed 


CHAR 


‘I — I ain’t a little piece of dirt, and if you say 
that I’ll never come to you again.’ 

‘You don’t know what you’ve done to me. I’m 
not angry — indeed, I’m not. Be quiet for a minute.’ 

Bessie remained in his arms shrinking. Dick’s 
first thought was connected with Maisie, and it hurt 
him as white-hot iron hurts an open sore. 

Not for nothing is a man permitted to ally him- 
self to the wrong woman. The first pang — the 
first sense of things lost is but the prelude to the 
play, for the very just Providence who delights in 
causing pain has decreed that the agony shall return, 
and that in the midst of keenest pleasure. They 
know this pain equally who have forsaken or been 
forsaken by the love of their life, and in their new 
wives’ arms are compelled to realise it. It is better 
to remain alone and suffer only the misery of being 
alone, so long as it is possible to find distraction in 
daily work. When that resource goes the man is 
to be pitied and left alone. 

These things and some others Dick considered 
while he was holding Bessie to his heart. 

‘ Though you mayn’t know it,’ he said, raising his 
head, ‘the Lord is a just and a terrible God, Bess ; 
with a very strong sense of humour. It serves me 
right — how it serves me right ! Torp could under- 
stand it if he were here ; he must have suffered 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


299 


something at your hands, child, but only for a 
minute or so. I saved him. Set that to my 
credit, some one.’ 

4 Let me go,’ said Bess, her face darkening. 4 Let 
me go.’ 

4 All in good time. Did you ever attend Sunday 
school ? ’ 

‘Never. Let me go, I tell you; you’re making 
fun of me.’ 

‘Indeed, I’m not. I’m making fun of myself. 
. . . Thus. “He saved others, himself he cannot 
save.” It isn’t exactly a school-board text.’ He 
released her wrist, but since he was between her 
and the door, she could not escape. 4 What an 
enormous amount of mischief one little woman can 
do!’ 

4 I’m sorry ; I’m awful sorry about the picture.’ 

4 I’m not. I’m grateful to you for spoiling it. 
. . . What were we talking about before you 
mentioned the thing ? ’ 

4 About getting away — and money. Me and 
you going away.’ 

‘Of course. We will get away< — that is to say, 
I will.’ 

4 And me ? ’ 

4 You shall have fifty whole pounds for spoiling a 
picture.’ 


300 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


' i 

4 Then you won’t ? ’ 

4 I’m afraid not, dear. Think of fifty pounds for 
pretty things all to yourself.’ 

4 You said you couldn’t do anything without me.’ 

‘That was true a little while ago. I’m better 
now, thank you. Get me my hat.’ 

4 S’pose I don’t ? ’ 

4 Beeton will, and you’ll lose fifty pounds. That’s 
all. Get it.’ 

Bessie cursed under her breath. She had pitied 
the man sincerely, had kissed him with almost equal 
sincerity, for he was not unhandsome ; it pleased her 
to be in a way and for a time his protector, and 
above all there were four thousand pounds to be 
handled by some one. Now through a slip of the 
tongue and a little feminine desire to give a little, not 
too much, pain she had lost the money, the blessed 
idleness and the pretty things, the companionship, 
and the chance of looking outwardly as respectable 
as a real lady. 

‘Now fill me a pipe. Tobacco doesn’t taste, but 
it doesn’t matter, and I’ll think things out. What’s 
the day of the week, Bess ? ’ 

‘Tuesday.’ 

‘Then Thursday’s mail-day. What a fool — 
what a blind fool I have been ! Twenty-two 
pounds covers my passage home again. Allow ten 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


801 


for additional expenses. We must put up at 
Madam Binat’s for old sake’s sake. Thirty-two 
pounds altogether. Add a hundred for the cost of 
the last trip — Gad, won’t Torp stare to see me! 
— a hundred and thirty-two leaves seventy-eight 
for baksheesh — I shall need it — and to play with. 
What are you crying for, Bess ? It wasn’t your 
fault, child ; it was mine altogether. Oh, you 
funny little opossum, mop your eyes and take me 
out ! I want the pass-book and the check-book. 
Stop a minute. Four thousand pounds at four per 
cent — that’s safe interest —means a hundred and 
sixty pounds a year ; one hundred and twenty 
pounds a year — also safe — is two eighty, and two 
hundred and eighty pounds added to three hundred 
a year means gilded luxury for a single woman. 
Bess, we’ll go to the bank.’ 

Richer by two hundred and ten pounds stored in 
his money-belt, Dick caused Bessie, now thoroughly 
bewildered, to hurry from the bank to the P. and 
O. offices, where he explained things tersely. 

‘ Port Said, single first ; cabin as close to the 
baggage-hatch as possible. What ship’s going ? ’ 
‘The Colgong,' said the clerk. 

‘ She’s a wet little hooker. Is it Tilbury and a 
tender, or Galleons and the docks ? ’ 

‘Galleons. Twelve-forty, Thursday.’ 


802 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ Thanks. Change, please. I can’t see very well 
- — will you count it into my hand ? ’ 

‘ If they all took their passages like that instead 
of talking about their trunks, life would be worth 
something,’ said the clerk to his neighbour, who was 
trying to explain to a harassed mother of many that 
condensed milk is just as good for babes at sea as 
daily dairy. Being nineteen and unmarried, he 
spoke with conviction. 

‘We are now,’ quoth Dick, as they returned to 
the studio, patting the place where his money-belt 
covered ticket and money, ‘ beyond the reach of man, 
or devil, or woman — which is much more important. 
I’ve three little affairs to carry through before 
Thursday, but I needn’t ask you to help, Bess. 
Come here on Thursday morning at nine. We’ll 
breakfast, and you shall take me down to Galleons 
Station.’ 

‘ What are you going to do ? ’ 

‘Going away, of course. What should I stay 
for?’ 

‘ But you can’t look after yourself ? ’ 

‘I can do anything. I didn’t realise it before, 
but I can. I’ve done a great deal already. 
Resolution shall be treated to one kiss if Bessie 
doesn’t object.’ Strangely enough, Bessie objected 
and Dick laughed. ‘ I suppose you’re right. Well, 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


303 


come at nine the day after to-morrow and you’ll get 
your money.’ 

4 Shall I sure ? ’ 

4 1 don’t bilk, and you won’t know whether I do 
or not unless you come. Oh, but it’s long and long 
to wait ! Good-bye, Bessie, — send Beeton here as 
you go out.’ 

The housekeeper came. 

4 What are all the fittings of my rooms worth ? ’ 
said Dick, imperiously. 

4 ’Tisn’t for me to say, sir. Some things is very 
pretty and some is wore out dreadful.’ 

4 I’m insured for two hundred and seventy.’* 

4 Insurance policies is no criterion, though I don’t 
say ’ 

4 Oh, damn your longwindedness ! You’ve made 
your pickings out of me and the other tenants. 
Why, you talked of retiring and buying a public- 
house the other day. Give a straight answer to a 
straight question.’ 

‘Fifty,’ said Mr. Beeton, without a moment’s 
hesitation. 

4 Double it ; or I’ll break up half my sticks and 
burn the rest.’ 

He felt his way to a bookstand that supported a 
pile of sketch-books, and wrenched out one of the 
mahogany pillars. 


304 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ That’s sinful, sir,’ said the housekeeper, alarmed. 

‘ It’s my own. One hundred or ’ 

4 One hundred it is. It’ll cost me three and six to 
get that there pilaster mended.’ 

‘I thought so. What an out and out swindler 
you must have been to spring that price at once ! ’ 

4 1 hope I’ve done nothing to dissatisfy any of the 
tenants, least of all you, sir.’ 

‘Never mind that. Get me the money to- 
morrow, and see that all my clothes are packed in 
the little brown bullock-trunk. I’m going.’ 

4 But the quarter’s notice ? ’ 

4 I’ll pay forfeit. Look after the packing and 
leave me alone.’ 

Mr. Beeton discussed this new departure with his 
wife, who decided that Bessie was at the bottom of 
it all. Her husband took a more charitable view. 

4 It’s very sudden — but then he was always 
sudden in his ways. Listen to him now ! ’ 

There was a sound of chanting from Dick’s room. 

‘ We’ll never come back any more, boys, 

We’ll never come back no more ; 

We’ll go to the deuce on any excuse, 

And never come back no more ! 

Oh say we’re afloat or ashore, boys, 

Oh say we’re afloat or ashore ; 

But we’ll never come back any more, boys, 

We’ll never come back no more!’ 


XIV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 305 

4 Mr. Beeton ! Mr. Beeton ! Where the deuce 
is my pistol ? ’ 

4 Quick, he’s going to shoot himself — ’avin’ gone 
mad ! ’ said Mrs. Beeton. 

Mr. Beeton addressed Dick soothingly, but it 
was some time before the latter, threshing up and 
down his bedroom, could realise the intention of 
the promises to 4 find everything to-morrow, sir.’ 

‘Oh, you copper-nosed old fool — you impotent 
Academician ! ’ he shouted at last. 4 Do you suppose 
I want to shoot myself? Take the pistol in your 
silly shaking hand then. If you touch it, it will 
go off, because it’s loaded. It’s among my campaign- 
kit somewhere — in the parcel at the bottom of the 
trunk. ’ 

Long ago Dick had carefully possessed himself 
of a forty-pound weight field-equipment constructed 
by the knowledge of his own experience. It was 
this put-away treasure that he was trying to find 
and rehandle. Mr. Beeton whipped the revolver 
out of its place on the top of the package, and Dick 
drove his hand among the khaki coat and breeches, 
the blue cloth leg-bands, and the heavy flannel 
shirts doubled over a pair of swan-neck spurs. 
Under these and the water-bottle lay a sketch-book 
and a pigskin case of stationery. 

4 These we don’t want ; you can have them, 


306 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Mr. Beeton. Everything else I’ll keep. Pack ’em 
on the top right-hand side of my trunk. When 
you’ve done that come into the studio with your 
wife. I want you both. Wait a minute; get me 
a pen and a sheet of notepaper.’ 

It is not an easy thing to write when you 
cannot see, and Dick had particular reasons for 
wishing that his work should be clear. So he 
began, following his right hand with his left: 

‘ “ The badness of this writing is because I am blind 
and cannot see, my pen.” H’mpli ! — even a lawyer 
can’t mistake that. It must be signed, I suppose, 
but it needn’t be witnessed. Now an inch lower — 
why did I never learn to use a type-writer? — “ This 
is the last will and testament of me, Richard Heldar, 
I am in sound bodily and mental health, and there 
is no previous will to revoke.” — That’s all right. 
Damn the pen ! Whereabouts on the paper was 
I? — “I leave everything that I possess in the world, 
including four thousand pounds, and two thousand 
seven hundred and twenty-eight pounds held for 
me ” — oh, I can’t get this straight.’ He tore off 
half the sheet and began again with the caution 
about the handwriting. Then : 4 1 leave all the 

money I possess in the world to’ — here followed 
Maisie’s name, and the names of the two banks 
that held his money. 


XIV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


307 


‘It mayn’t be quite regular, but no one has a 
shadow of a right to dispute it, and I’ve given 
Maisie’s address. Come in, Mr. Beeton. This is 
my signature ; you’ve seen it often enough to 
know it ; I want you and your wife to witness it. 
Thanks. To-morrow you must take me to the 
landlord and I’ll pay forfeit for leaving without 
notice, and I’ll lodge this paper with him in case 
anything happens when I’m away. Now we’re 
going to light up the studio stove. Stay with me, 
and give me my papers as I want ’em.’ 

No one knows until he has tried how fine a 
blaze a year’s accumulation of bills, letters, and 
dockets can make. Dick stuffed into the stove 
every document in the studio — saving only three 
unopened letters : destroyed sketch-books, rough 
note-books, new and half-finished canvases alike. 

‘What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about him 
if he stays long enough in one place, to be sure,’ 
said Mr. Beeton, at last. 

‘He does. Is there anything more left?’ Dick 
felt round the walls. 

‘Not a thing, and the stove’s nigh red-hot.’ 

‘ Excellent, and you’ve lost about a thousand 
pounds’ worth of sketches. Ho ! ho ! Quite a 
thousand pounds’ worth, if I can remember what I 
used to be.’ 


308 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. XIV 


‘Yes, sir,’ politely. Mr. Beeton was quite sure 
that Dick had gone mad, otherwise he would have 
never parted with his excellent furniture for a song. 
The canvas things took up storage room and were 
much better out of the way. 

There remained only to leave the little will in 
safe hands : that could not be accomplished till to- 
morrow. Dick groped about the floor picking up the 
last pieces of paper, assured himself again and again 
that there remained no written word or sign of his 
past life in drawer or desk, and sat down before the 
stove till the fire died out and the contracting iron 
cracked in the silence of the night. 


CHAPTER XV 


With a heart of furious fancies, 

Whereof I am commander ; 

With a burning spear and a horse of air, 

To the wilderness I wander. 

With a knight of ghosts and shadows 
I summoned am to tourney — 

Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end, 

Methinks it is no journey. 

— Tom a? Bedlam's Song. 

4 Good-bye, Bess ; I promised you fifty. Here’s a 
hundred — all that I got for my furniture from 
Beeton. That will keep you in pretty frocks for 
some time. You’ve been a good little girl, all 
things considered, but you’ve given me and Torpen- 
how a fair amount of trouble.’ 

‘Give Mr. Torpenhow my love if you see him, 
won’t you ? ’ 

‘ Of course I will, dear. Now take me up the 
gang-plank and into the cabin. Once aboard the 
lugger and the maid is — and I am free, I mean.’ 

4 Who’ll look after you on the ship ? ’ 

309 


810 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘The head-steward, if there’s any use in money. 
The doctor when we come to Port Said, if I know 
anything of P. and O. doctors. After that, the Lord 
will provide, as He used to do.’ 

Bess found Dick his cabin in the wild turmoil of 
a ship full of leavetakers and weeping relatives. 
Then he kissed her, and laid himself down in his 
bunk until the decks should be clear. He who 
had taken so long to move about his own darkened 
rooms well understood the geography of a ship, and 
the necessity of seeing to his own comforts was as 
wine to him. Before the screw began to thrash the 
ship along the Docks he had been introduced to the 
head-steward, had royally tipped him, secured a 
good place at table, opened out his baggage, and 
settled himself down with joy in the cabin. It was 
scarcely necessary to feel his way as he moved 
about, for he knew everything so well. Then God 
was very kind : a deep sleep of we:tdness came 
upon him just as he would have thought of Maisie, 
and he slept till the steamer had cleared the mouth 
of the Thames and was lifting to the pulse of the 
Channel. 

The rattle of the engines, the reek of oil and 
paint, and a very familiar sound in the next cabin 
roused him to his new inheritance. 

‘ Oh, it’s good to be alive again ! ’ He yawned, 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


311 


stretched himself vigorously, and went on deck to be 
told that they were almost abreast of the lights of 
Brighton. This is no more open water than 
Trafalgar Square is a common ; the free levels 
begin at Ushant ; but none the less Dick could feel 
the healing of the sea at work upon him already. 
A boisterous little cross-swell swung the steamer 
disrespectfully by the nose ; and one wave breaking 
far aft spattered the quarterdeck and the pile of 
new deck-chairs. He heard the foam fall with the 
clash of broken glass, was stung in the face by a 
cupful, and sniffing luxuriously, felt his way to the 
smoking-room by the wheel. There a strong breeze 
found him, blew his cap off and left him bareheaded 
in the doorway, and the smoking-room steward, un- 
derstanding that he was a voyager of experience, 
said that the weather would be stiff in the chops off 
the Channel and more than half a gale in the Bay. 
These things fell as they were foretold, and Dick 
enjoyed himself to the utmost. It is allowable and 
even necessary at sea to lay firm hold upon tables, 
stanchions, and ropes in moving from place to 
place. On land the man who feels with his hands 
is patently blind. At sea even a blind man who is 
not sea-sick can jest with the doctor over the weak- 
ness of his fellows. Dick told the doctor many 
tales — and these are coin of more value than silver 


312 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


if properly handled — smoked with him till unholy 
hours of the night, and so won his short-lived 
regard that he promised Dick a few hours of his 
time when they came to Port Said. 

And the sea roared or was still as the winds blew, 
and the engines sang their song day and night, 
and the sun grew stronger day by day, and Tom 
the Lascar barber shaved Dick of a morning under 
the opened hatch-grating where the cool winds 
blew, and the awnings were spread and the 
passengers made merry, and at last they came to 
Port Said. 

‘Take me,’ said Dick, to the doctor, ‘to Madame 
Binat’s — if you know where that is.’ 

‘ Whew ! ’ said the doctor, ‘ I do. There’s not 
much to choose between ’em ; but I suppose you’re 
aware that that’s one of the worst houses in the 
place. They’ll rob you to begin with, and knife you 
later.’ 

‘ Not they. Take me there, and I can look after 
myself.’ 

So he was brought to Madame Binat’s and 
filled his nostrils with the well-remembered smell 
of the East, that runs without a change from the 
Canal head to Hong-Kong, and his mouth with the 
villanous Lingua Franca of the Levant. The heat 
smote him between the shoulder-blades with the 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


buffet of an old friend, his feet slipped on the 
and his coat-sleeve was warm as new-baked b 
when he lifted it to his nose. 

Madame Binat smiled with the smile that kn 
no astonishment when Dick entered the drinki 
shop which was one source of her gains. But fo 
little accident of complete darkness he could hara . 
realise that he had ever quitted the old life that 
hummed in his ears. Somebody opened a bottle 
of peculiarly strong Schiedam. The smell reminded 
Dick of Monsieur Binat, who, by the way, had 
spoken of art and degradation. Binat was dead ; 
Madame said as much when the dector departed, 
scandalised, so far as a ship’s doctor can be, at the 
warmth of Dick’s reception. Dick was delighted 
at it. 1 They remember me here after a year. 
They have forgotten me across the water by 
this time. Madame, I want a long talk with you 
when you’re at liberty. It is good to be back 
again.’ 

In the evening she set an iron-topped cafe-table 
out on the sands, and Dick and she sat by it, while 
the house behind them filled with riot, merriment, 
oaths, and threats. The stars came out and the 
lights of the shipping in the harbour twinkled by 
the head of the Canal. 

‘ Yes. The war is good for trade, my friend ; 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


what dost thou do here? We have not for- 
en thee.’ 

• was over there in England and I went blind.’ 
But there was the glory first. We heard of it 
e, even here — I and Binat ; and thou hast used 
j head of Yellow ’Tina — she is still alive — so 
.cen and so well that ’Tina laughed when the 
papers arrived by the mail-boats. It was always 
something that we here could recognise in the 
paintings. And then there was always the glory 
and the money for thee.’ 

‘ I am not poor — I shall pay you well.’ 

‘Not to me. Thou hast paid for everything.’ 
Under her breath, ‘ Mon Dieu, to be blind and so 
young ! What horror ! ’ 

Dick could not see her face with the pity on it, 
or his own with the discoloured hair at the temples. 
He did not feel the need of pity ; he was too 
anxious to get to the front once more, and ex- 
plained his desire. 

‘ And where ? The Canal is full of the English 
ships. Sometimes they fire as they used to do 
when the war was here — ten years ago. Beyond 
Cairo there is fighting, but how canst thou go 
there without a correspondent’s passport? And in 
the desert there is always fighting, but that is 
impossible also,’ said she. 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


315 


‘I must go to Suakin.’ He knew, thanks to 
Alt’s readings, that Torpenhow was at work with 
the column that was protecting the construction of 
the Suakin-Berber line. P. and O. steamers do not 
touch at that port, and, besides, Madame Binat 
knew everybody whose help or advice was worth 
anything. They were not respectable folk, but they 
could cause things to be accomplished, which is 
much more important when there is work toward. 

‘ But at Suakin they are always fighting. That 
desert breeds men always — and always more men. 
And they are so bold ! Why to Suakin ? ’ 

4 My friend is there.’ 

‘ Thy friend ! Chtt ! Thy friend is death, then.’ 

Madame Binat dropped a fat arm on the table- 
top, filled Dick’s glass anew, and looked at him 
closely under the stars. There was no need that 
he should bow his head in assent and say — 

‘No. He is a man, but — if it should arrive . . . 
blamest thou ? ’ 

‘ I blame ? ’ she laughed shrilly. ‘ Who am I 
that I should blame any one — except those who 
try to cheat me over their consommations. But 
it is very terrible.’ 

‘ I must go to Suakin. Think for me. A great 
deal has changed within the year, and the men 
I knew are not here. The Egyptian lighthouse 


316 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


steamer goes down the Canal to Suakin — and the 
post-boats — But even then ’ 

1 Do not think any longer. I know, and it is for 
me to think. Thou shalt go — thou shalt go and 
see thy friend. Be wise. Sit here until the house 
is a little quiet — I must attend to my guests — 
and afterwards go to bed. Thou shalt go, in 
truth, thou shalt go.’ 

4 To-morrow ? ’ 

‘ As soon as may be.’ She was talking as 
though he were a child. 

He sat at the table listening to the voices in 
the harbour and the streets, and wondering how 
soon the end would come, till Madame Binat car- 
ried him off to bed and ordered him to sleep. The 
house shouted and sang and danced and revelled, 
Madame Binat moving through it with one eye 
on the liquor payments and the girls and the 
other on Dick’s interests. To this latter end 
she smiled upon scowling and furtive Turkish 
officers of fellaheen regiments, was gracious to 
Cypriote commissariat underlings, and more than 
kind to camel agents of no nationality what- 
ever. 

In the early morning, being then appropriately 
dressed in a flaming red silk ball-dress, with a front 
of tarnished gold embroidery and a necklace of 


XV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 817 

plate-glass diamonds, she made chocolate and carried 
it in to Dick. 

‘It is only I, and I am of discreet age, eh? 
Drink and eat the roll too. Thus in France 
mothers bring their sons, when those behave wisely, 
the morning chocolate.’ She sat down on the side 
of the bed whispering : — 

‘It is all arranged. Thou wilt go by the light- 
house boat. That is a bribe of ten pounds English. 
The captain is never paid by the Government. 
The boat comes to Suakin in four days. There 
will go with thee George, a Greek muleteer. 
Another bribe of ten pounds. I will pay; they 
must not know of thy money. George will go with 
thee as far as he goes with his mules. Then he 
comes back to me, for his well-beloved is here, and 
if I do not receive a telegram from Suakin saying 
that thou art well, the girl answers for George.’ 

‘Thank you.’ He reached out sleepily for the 
cup. ‘ You are much too kind, Madame.’ 

‘ If there were anything that I might do I would 
say, stay here and be wise ; but I do not think that 
would be best for thee.’ She looked at her liquor- 
stained dress with a sad smile. ‘Nay, thou shalt 
go, in truth, thou shalt go. It is best so. My boy, 
it is best so.’ 

She stooped and kissed Dick between the eyes. 


318 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


4 That is for good-morning,’ she said, going away. 
‘When thou art dressed we will speak to George 
and make everything ready. But first we must 
open the little trunk. Give me the keys.’ 

‘ The amount of kissing lately has been simply 
scandalous. I shall expect Torp to kiss me next. 
He is more likely to swear at me for getting in 
his way, though. Well, it won’t last long. — Ohe, 
Madame, help me to my toilette of the guillotine ! 
There will be no chance of dressing properly out 
yonder.’ 

He was rummaging among his new campaign- 
kit, and rowelling his hands with the spurs. 
There are two ways of wearing well-oiled ankle- 
jacks, spotless blue leg-bands, khaki coat and 
breeches, and a perfectly pipeclayed helmet. The 
right way is the way of the untired man, master 
of himself, setting out upon an expedition, well 
pleased. 

‘Everything must be very correct,’ Dick ex- 
plained. ‘ It will become dirty afterwards, but now 
it is good to feel well dressed. Is everything as it 
should be ? ’ 

He patted the revolver neatly hidden under the 
fulness of the blouse on the right hip and fingered 
his collar. 

‘I can do no more,’ Madame said, between 


XV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 319 

laughing and crying. ‘Look at thyself — but I 
forgot.’ 

‘I am very content.’ He stroked the creaseless 
spirals of his leggings. ‘Now let us go and see the 
captain and George and the lighthouse boat. Be 
quick, Madame.’ 

‘But thou canst not be seen by the harbour 
walking with me in the daylight. Figure to your- 
self if some English ladies ’ 

‘ There are no English ladies ; and if there are, I 
have forgotten them. Take me there.’ 

In spite of his burning impatience it was nearly 
evening ere the lighthouse boat began to move. 
Madame had said a great deal both to George and 
the captain touching the arrangements that were to 
be made for Dick’s benefit. Very few men who 
had the honour of her acquaintance cared to dis- 
regard Madame’s advice. That sort of contempt 
might end in being knifed by a stranger in a 
gambling hell upon surprisingly short provocation. 

For six days — two of them were wasted in the 
crowded Canal — the little steamer worked her way 
to Suakin, where she was to pick up the super- 
intendent of lighthouses ; and Dick made it his 
business to propitiate George, who was distracted 
with fears for the safety of his light-of-love and half 
inclined to make Dick responsible for his own dis- 


320 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


comfort. When they arrived George took him 
under his wing, and together they entered the red- 
hot seaport, encumbered with the material and 
wastage of the Suakin-Berber line, from locomo- 
tives in disconsolate fragments to mounds of chairs 
and pot-sleepers. 

4 If you keep with me,’ said George, ‘ nobody will 
ask for passports or what you do. They are all 
very busy.’ 

‘ Yes ; but I should like to hear some of the 
Englishmen talk. They might remember me. I 
was known here a long time ago — when I was some 
one indeed.’ 

‘ A long time ago is a very long time ago here. 
The graveyards are full. Now listen. This new 
railway runs out so far as Tanai-al-Hassan — that is 
seven miles. Then there is a camp. They say 
that beyond Tanai-el-Hassan the English troops go 
forward, and everything that they require will be 
brought to them by this line.’ 

‘Ah I Base camp. I see. That’s a better busi- 
ness than fighting Fuzzies in the open.’ 

‘For this reason even the mules go up in the 
iron-train.’ 

‘ Iron what ? ’ 

‘It is all covered with iron, because it is still 
being shot at.’ 



DON’T YOU WANT TO SEE ME, DICK? 









XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


321 


‘ An armoured train. Better and better ! Go 
on, faithful George.’ 

‘ And I go up with my mules to-night. Only 
those who particularly require to go to the camp go 
out with the train. They begin to shoot not far 
from the city.’ 

4 The dears — they always used to ! ’ Dick snuffed 
the smell of parched dust, heated iron, and flaking 
paint with delight. Certainly the old life was wel- 
coming him back most generously. 

4 When I have got my mules together I go up 
to-night, but you must first send a telegram to Port 
Said, declaring that I have done you no harm.’ 

‘Madame has you well in hand. Would you 
stick a knife into me if you had the chance ? ’ 

‘ I have no chance,’ said the Greek. ‘ She is 
there with that woman.’ 

‘I see. It’s a bad thing to be divided between 
love of woman and the chance of loot. I sym- 
pathise with you, George.’ 

They went to the telegraph-office unquestioned, 
for all the world was desperately busy and had 
scarcely time to turn its head, and Suakin was 
the last place under sky that would be chosen for 
holiday-ground. On their return the voice of an 
English subaltern asked Dick what he was doing. 
The blue goggles were over his eyes and he 


322 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


walked with his hand on George’s elbow as he 
replied — 

‘Egyptian Government — mules. My orders are 
to give them over to the A. C. G. at Tanai-el-Hassan. 
Any occasion to show my papers ? ’ 

‘ Oh, certainly not. I beg your pardon. I’d no 

right to ask, but not seeing your face before I ’ 

‘ I go out in the train to-night, I suppose,’ said 
Dick, boldly. ‘ There will be no difficulty in load- 
ing up the mules, will there ? ’ 

‘You can see the horse-platforms from here. 
You must have them loaded up early.’ The young 
man went away wondering what sort of broken- 
down waif this might be who talked like a gentle- 
man and consorted with Greek muleteers. Dick 
felt unhappy. To outface an English officer is no 
small thing, but the bluff loses relish when one plays 
it from the utter dark, and stumbles up and down 
rough ways, thinking and eternally thinking of 
what might have been if things had fallen out 
otherwise, and all had been as it was not. 

George shared his meal with Dick and went off 
to the mule-lines. His charge sat alone in a shed 
with his face in his hands. Before his tight-shut 
eyes danced the face of Maisie, laughing, with parted 
lips. There was a great bustle and clamour about 
him. He grew afraid and almost called for George. 


XV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 323 

4 1 say, have you got your mules ready ? ’ It was 
the voice of the subaltern over his shoulder. 

‘My man’s looking after them. The — the fact 
is I’ve a touch of ophthalmia and I can’t see very 
wed.’ 

‘By Jove! that’s bad. You ought to lie up in 
hospital for a while. I’ve had a turn of it myself. 
It’s as bad as being blind.’ 

‘ So I find it. When does this armoured train go ? 9 

‘ At six o’clock. It takes an hour to cover the 
seven miles.’ 

‘ Are the Fuzzies on the rampage — eh ? ’ 

‘ About three nights a week. Fact is I’m in 
acting command of the night-train. It generally 
runs back empty to Tanai for the night.’ 

‘Big camp at Tanai, I suppose ? ’ 

‘Pretty big. It has to feed our desert-column 
somehow.’ 

‘ Is that far off ? ’ 

‘ Between thirty and forty miles — in an infernal 
thirsty country.’ 

‘Is the country quiet between Tanai and our 
men?’ 

‘ More or less. I shouldn’t care to cross it alone, 
or with a subaltern’s command for the matter of 
that, but the scouts get through in some extra- 
ordinary fashion.’ 


324 


CHAP. 


( 

THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 

‘They always did.’ 

‘ Have yon been here before, then ? ’ 

‘ I was through most of the trouble when it first 
broke out.’ 

‘ In the service and cashiered,’ was the subaltern’s 
first thought, so he refrained from putting any 
questions. 

‘There’s your man coming up with the mules. 
It seems rather queer ’ 

‘ That should be mule-leading ? ’ said Dick. 

‘I didn’t mean to say so, but it is. Forgive me 
— it’s beastly impertinence I know, but you speak 
like a man who has been at a public school. There’s 
no mistaking the tone.’ 

‘lama public school man.’ 

‘ I thought so. I say, I don’t want to hurt your 
feelings, but you’re a little down on your luck, aren’t 
you? I saw you sitting with your head in your 
hands, and that’s why I spoke.’ 

‘Thanks. I am about as thoroughly and com- 
pletely broke as a man need be.’ 

‘ Suppose — I mean I’m a public school man 
myself. Couldn’t I perhaps — take it as a loan 
y’know and ’ 

‘You’re much too good, but on my honour I’ve 
as much money as I want. ... I tell you what 
you could do for me, though, and put me under an 


XV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 325 

everlasting obligation. Let me come into the bogie 
truck of the train. There is a fore-truck, isn’t there ? ’ 

4 Yes. How d’you know ? ’ 

‘I’ve been in an armoured train before. Only 
let me see — hear some of the fun I mean, and I’ll 
be grateful. I go at my own risk as a non- 
combatant.’ 

The young man thought for a minute. ‘All 
right,’ he said. ‘We’re supposed to be an empty 
train, and there’s no one to blow me up at the 
other end.’ 

George and a horde of yelling amateur assistants 
had loaded up the mules, and the narrow-gauge 
armoured train, plated with three-eighths inch boiler- 
plate till it looked like one long coffin, stood ready 
to start. 

Two bogie trucks running before the locomotive 
were completely covered in with plating, except 
that the leading one was pierced in front for the 
nozzle of a machine-gun, and the second at either 
side for lateral fire. The trucks together made one 
long iron- vaulted chamber in which a score of 
artillerymen were rioting. 

‘ Whitechapel — last train ! Ah, I see yer 
kissin’ in the first class there ! ’ somebody shouted, 
just as Dick was clambering into the forward truck. 

‘ Lordy ! ’Ere’s a real live passenger for the 


326 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


Kew, Tanai, Acton, and Ealin’ train. Echo , sir. 
Speshul edition! Star, sir.’ — 4 Shall I get you a 
foot-warmer ? ’ said another. 

‘Thanks. I’ll pay my footing,’ said Dick, and 
relations of the most amicable were established ere 
silence came with the arrival of the subaltern, and 
the train jolted out over the rough track. 

‘This is an immense improvement on shooting 
the unimpressionable Fuzzy in the open,’ said Dick, 
from his place in the corner. 

‘ Oh, but he’s still unimpressed. There he 
goes ! ’ said the subaltern, as a bullet struck the 
outside of the truck. ‘ W e always have at least 
one demonstration against the night-train. Gener- 
ally they attack the rear-truck, where my junior 
commands. He gets all the fun of the fair.’ 

‘Not to-night though ! Listen ! ’ said Dick. A 
flight of heavy-handed bullets was succeeded by 
yelling and shouts. The children of the desert 
valued their nightly amusement, and the train was 
an excellent mark. 

‘Is it worth while giving them half a hopper 
full ? ’ the subaltern asked of the engine, which was 
driven by a Lieutenant of Sappers. 

‘ I should just think so ! This is my section of 
the line. They’ll be playing old Harry with my 
permanent way if we don’t stop ’em.’ 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


327 


‘ Right O ! ’ 

4 Hrrmph ! ’ said the machine gun through 
all its five noses as the subaltern drew the 
lever home. The empty cartridges clashed on the 
floor and the smoke blew back through the truck. 
There was indiscriminate firing at the rear of the 
train, and return fire from the darkness without and 
unlimited howling. Dick stretched himself on the 
floor, wild with delight at the sounds and the 
smells. 

‘God is very good — I never thought I’d hear 
this again. Give ’em hell, men. Oh, give ’em 
hell ! ’ he cried. 

The train stopped for some obstruction on the 
line ahead and a party went out to reconnoitre, but 
came back cursing, for spades. The children of the 
desert had piled sand and gravel on the rails, and 
twenty minutes were lost in clearing it away. Then 
the slow progress recommenced, to be varied with 
more shots, more shoutings, the steady clack and 
kick of the machine guns, and a final difficulty 
with a half-lifted rail ere the train came under 
the protection of the roaring camp at Tanai-el- 
Hassan. 

‘Now, you see why it takes an hour and a half 
to fetch her through,’ said the subaltern, unshipping 
the cartridge-hopper above his pet gun. 


328 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


‘ It was a lark, though. I only wish it had lasted 
twice as long. How superb it must have looked 
from outside ! ’ said Dick, sighing regretfully. 

‘It palls after the first few nights. By the way, 
when you’ve settled about your mules, come and see 
what we can find to eat in my tent. I’m Bennil of 
the Gunners — in the artillery lines — and mind you 
don’t fall over my tent-ropes in the dark.’ 

But it was all dark to Dick. He could only 
smell the camels, the hay-bales, the cooking, the 
smoky fires, and the tanned canvas of the tents as he 
stood, where he had dropped from the train, shouting 
for George. There was a sound of light-hearted 
kicking on the iron skin of the rear trucks, with 
squealing and grunting. George was unloading the 
mules. 

The engine was blowing off steam nearly in Dick’s 
ear ; a cold wind of the desert danced between his 
legs ; he was hungry, and felt tired and dirty — 
so dirty that he tried to brush his coat with his 
hands. That was a hopeless job ; he thrust his 
hands into his pockets and began to count over the 
many times that he had waited in strange or remote 
places for trains or camels, mules or horses, to carry 
him to his business. In those days he could see — 
few men more clearly — and the spectacle of an 
armed camp at dinner under the stars was an ever 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


329 


fresh pleasure to the eye. There was colour, light, 
and motion, without which no man has much 
pleasure in living. This night there remained for 
him only one more journey through the darkness 
that never lifts to tell a man how far he has 
travelled. Then he would grip Torpenhow’s hand 
again — Torpenhow, who was alive and strong, and 
lived in the midst of the action that had once made 
the reputation of a man called Dick Heldar : not 
in the least to be confused with the blind, be- 
wildered vagabond who seemed to answer to the 
same name. Yes, he would find Torpenhow, and 
come as near to the old life as might be. After- 
wards he would forget everything : Bessie, who had 
wrecked the Melancolia and so nearly wrecked his 
life ; Beeton, who lived in a strange unreal city full 
of tin-tacks and gas-plugs and matters that no men 
needed ; that irrational being who had offered him 
love and loyalty for nothing, but had not signed 
her name ; and most of all Maisie, who, from her 
own point of view, was undeniably right in all 
she did, but oh, at this distance, so tantalisingly 
fair. 

George’s hand on his arm pulled him back to 
the situation. 

‘ And what now ? ’ said George. 

‘ Oh yes, of course. What now ? Take me to 


330 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


the camel-men. Take me to where the scouts sit 
when they come in from the desert. They sit by 
their camels, and the camels eat grain out of a 
black blanket held up at the corners, and the 
men eat by their side just like camels. Take me 
there ! ’ 

The camp was rough and rutty, and Dick 
stumbled many times over the stumps of scrub. 
The scouts were sitting by their beasts, as Dick 
knew they would. The light of the dung-fires 
flickered on their bearded faces, and the camels 
bubbled and mumbled beside them at rest. It was 
no part of Dick’s policy to go into the desert with a 
convoy of supplies. That would lead to impertinent 
questions, and since a blind non-combatant is not 
needed at the front, he would probably be forced to 
return to Suakin. He must go up alone, and go 
immediately. 

‘Now for one last bluff — the biggest of all,’ he 
said. ‘ Peace be with you, brethren ! ’ The watchful 
George steered him to the circle of the nearest fire. 
The heads of the camel-sheiks bowed gravely, and 
the camels, scenting a European, looked sideways 
curiously like brooding hens, half ready to get to 
their feet. 

‘A beast and a driver to go to the fighting line 
to-night,’ said Dick. 


XV THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 331 

4 A Mulaid ? ’ said a voice, scornfully naming the 
best baggage-breed that he knew. 

4 A Bisharin,’ returned Dick, with perfect gravity. 
4 A Bisharin without saddle-galls. Therefore no 
charge of thine, shock-head.’ 

Two or three minutes passed. Then — 

4 We be knee -haltered for the night. There is 
no going out from the camp.’ 

4 Not for money ? ’ 

4 H’m ! Ah ! English money ? ’ 

Another depressing interval of silence. 

4 How much ? ’ 

‘Twenty-five pounds English paid into the hand 
of the driver at my journey’s end, and as much 
more into the hand of the camel-sheik here, to be 
paid when the driver returns.’ 

This was royal payment, and the sheik, who 
knew that he would get his commission on the 
deposit, stirred in Dick’s behalf. 

‘For scarcely one night’s journey — fifty pounds. 
Land and wells and good trees and wives to make 
a man content for the rest of his days. Who 
speaks ? ’ said Dick. 

4 1,’ said a voice. 4 1 will go — but there is no 
going from the camp.’ 

4 Fool ! I know that a camel can break his 
knee-halter, and the sentries do not fire if one goes 


332 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


in chase. Twenty-five pounds and another twenty- 
five pounds. But the beast must be a good 
Bisharin ; I will take no baggage-camel.’ 

Then the bargaining began, and at the end of 
half an hour the first deposit was paid over to the 
sheik, who talked in low tones to the driver. 
Dick heard the latter say : 4 A little way out only. 
Any baggage-beast will serve. Am I a fool to 
waste my cattle for a blind man ? ’ 

4 And though I cannot see ’ — Dick lifted his voice 
a little — 4 yet I carry that which has six eyes, and 
the driver will sit before me. If we do not reach 
the English troops in the dawn he will be dead.’ 

‘ But where, in God’s name, are the troops ? ’ 

4 Unless thou knowest let another man ride. 
Dost thou know ? Remember it will be life or 
death to thee.’ 

4 1 know,’ said the driver, sullenly. 4 Stand back 
from my beast. I am going to slip him.’ 

4 Not so swiftly. George, hold the camel’s head 
a moment. I want to feel his cheek.’ The 
hands wandered over the hide till they found the 
branded half-circle that is the mark of the 
Bisharin, the light-built riding-camel. 4 That is 
well. Cut this one loose. Remember no blessing 
of God comes on those who try to cheat the 
blind.’ 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


333 


The men chuckled by the fires at the camel- 
driver’s discomfiture. He had intended to sub- 
stitute a slow, saddle-galled baggage-colt. 

4 Stand back ! ’ one shouted, lashing the Bisharin 
under the belly with a quirt. Dick obeyed as soon 
as he felt the nose-string tighten in his hand, — and 
a cry went up, 4 Illaha ! Aho ! He is loose.’ 

With a roar and a grunt the Bisharin rose to 
his feet and plunged forward toward the desert, 
his driver following with shouts and lamentation. 
George caught Dick’s arm and hurried him stum- 
bling and tripping past a disgusted sentry who was 
used to stampeding camels. 

4 What’s the row now ? ’ he cried. 

‘Every stitch of my kit on that blasted drome- 
dary,’ Dick answered, after the manner of a common 
soldier. 

4 Go on, and take care your throat’s not cut out- 
side — you and your dromedary’s.’ 

The outcries ceased when the camel had dis- 
appeared behind a hillock, and his driver had called 
him back and made him kneel down. 

4 Mount first,’ said Dick. Then climbing into 
the second seat and gently screwing the pistol 
muzzle into the small of his companion’s back, 
4 Go on in God’s name, and swiftly. Good-bye, 
George. Remember me to j ipidame, and have a 


334 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


good time with your girl. Get forward, child of 
the Pit ! ’ 

A few minutes later he was shut up in a great 
silence, hardly broken by the creaking of the saddle 
and the soft pad of the tireless feet. Dick adjusted 
himself comfortably to the rock and pitch of the 
pace, girthed his belt tighter, and felt the darkness 
slide past. For an hour he was conscious only of 
the sense of rapid progress. 

‘ A good camel,’ he said at last. 

‘ He has never been underfed. He is my own 
and clean bred,’ the driver replied. 

4 Go on.’ 

His head dropped on his chest and he tried to 
think, but the tenor of his thoughts was broken 
because he was very sleepy. In the half doze it 
seemed that he was learning a punishment hymn at 
Mrs. Jennett’s. He had committed some crime as 
bad as Sabbath-breaking, and she had locked him up 
in his bedroom. But he could never repeat more 
than the first two lines of the hymn — 

When Israel of the Lord beloved 
Out of the land of bondage came. 

He said them over and over thousands of times. 
The driver turned in the saddle to see if there were 
any chance of capturing the revolver and ending 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


335 


the ride. Dick roused, struck him over the head 
with the butt, and stormed himself wide awake. 
Somebody hidden in & clump of camel-thorn shouted 
as the camel toiled up rising ground. A shot was 
fired, and the silence shut down again, bringing the 
desire ,to sleep. Dick could think no longer. He 
was too tired and stiff and cramped to do more than 
nod uneasily from time to time, waking with a 
start and punching the driver with the pistol. 

4 Is there a moon ? ’ he asked drowsily. 

4 She is near her setting.’ 

4 1 wish that I could see her. Halt the camel. 
At least let me hear the desert talk.’ 

The man obeyed. Out of the utter stillness 
came one breath of wind. It rattled the dead leaves 
of a shrub some distance away and ceased. A hand- 
ful of dry earth detached itself from the edge of a 
rain trench and crumbled softly to the bottom. 

4 Go on. The night is very cold.’ 

Those who have watched till the morning know 
how the last hour before the light lengthens itself 
into many eternities. It seemed to Dick that he 
had never since the beginning of original darkness 
done anything at all save jolt through the air. 
Once in a thousand years he would finger the nail- 
heads on the saddle-front and count them all care- 
fully. Centuries later he would shift his revolver 


336 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP, 


from his right hand to his left and allow the eased 
arm to drop down at his side. From the safe 
distance of London he was watching himself thus 
employed, — watching critically. Yet whenever he 
put out his hand to the canvas that he might paint 
the tawny yellow desert under the glare of the 
sinking moon, the black shadow of the camel and 
the two bowed figures atop, that hand held a 
revolver and the arm was numbed from wrist to 
collar-bone. Moreover, he was in the dark, and 
could see no canvas of any kind whatever. 

The driver grunted, and Dick was conscious of a 
change in the air. 

‘I smell the dawn,’ he whispered. 

4 It is here, and yonder are the troops. Have I 
done well ? ’ 

The camel stretched out its neck and roared as 
there came down wind the pungent reek of earn els 
in square. 

4 Go on. We must get there swiftly. Go on.’ 

‘They are moving in their camp. There is so 
much dust that I cannot see what they do.’ 

4 Am I in better case ? Go forward.’ 

They could hear the hum of voices ahead, the 
howling and the bubbling of the beasts and the 
hoarse cries of the soldiers girthing up for the day. 
Two or three shots were fired. 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


337 


4 Is that at us ? Surely they can see that I am 
English,’ Dick spoke angrily. 

4 Nay, it is from the desert,’ the driver answered, 
cowering in his saddle. 4 Go forward, my child ! 
Well it is that the dawn did not uncover us an 
hour ago.’ 

The camel headed straight for the column and 
the shots behind multiplied. The children of the 
desert had arranged that most uncomfortable of 
surprises, a dawn attack for the English troops, and 
were getting their distance by snap-shots at the only 
moving object without the square. 

4 What luck ! What stupendous and imperial 
luck ! ’ said Dick. 4 It’s 44 just before the battle, 
mother.” Oh, God has been most good to me ! 
Only ’ — the agony of the thought made him screw 
up his eyes for an instant — 4 Maisie . . .’ 

4 Allahu ! We are in,’ said the man, as he drove 
into the rearguard and the camel knelt. 

4 Who the deuce are you ? Despatches or what ? 
What’s the strength of the enemy behind that ridge ? 
How did you get through ? ’ asked a dozen voices. 
For all answer Dick took a long breath, unbuckled 
his belt, and shouted from the saddle at the top 
of a wearied and dusty voice, 4 Torpenhow ! Ohe, 
Torp ! Coo-ee, Tor-pen-how. ’ 

A bearded man raking in the ashes of a fire 


838 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


CHAP. 


for a light to his pipe moved very swiftly towards 
that cry, as the rearguard, facing about, began 
to fire at the puffs of smoke from the hillocks 
around. Gradually the scattered white cloudlets 
drew out into long lines of banked white that hung 
heavily in the stillness of the dawn before they 
turned over wave-like and glided into the valleys. 
The soldiers in the square were .coughing and swear- 
ing as their own smoke obstructed their view, and 
they edged forward to get beyond it. A wounded 
camel leaped to its feet and roared aloud, the cry 
ending in a bubbling grunt. Some one had cut 
its throat to prevent confusion. Then came the 
thick sob of a man receiving his death-wound 
from a bullet ; then a yell of agony and redoubled 
firing. 

There was no time to ask any questions. 

4 Get down, man ! Get down behind the camel ! ’ 
4 No. Put me, I pray, in the forefront of the 
battle.’ Dick turned his face to Torpenhow and 
raised his hand to set his helmet straight, but, 
miscalculating the distance, knocked it off. Tor- 
penhow saw that his hair was gray on the temples, 
and that his face was the face of an old man. 

4 Come down, you damned fool ! Dickie, come off ! ’ 
And Dick came obediently, but as a tree falls, 
pitching sideways from the Bisharin’s saddle at 


XV 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


339 


Torpenhow’s feet. His luck had held to the last, 
even to the crowning mercy of a kindly bullet 
through his head. 

Torpenhow knelt under the lee of the camel, with 
Dick’s body in his arms. 


NOTE CONCERNING THE DRAMATIC VERSION 

The present edition of “ The Light that Failed ” is 
published complete as Mr. Kipling finally gave the story 
to his publishers. The dramatic version , however, ac- 
cepts the happy ending of the first edition published in 
1891 . In that the story goes no further than the twelfth 
chapter, in which Torpenhow'' s surmise of Dick's happi- 
ness is correct and Maisie really claims him as her own ; 
while Heldar, with great happiness, joins in the jollifica- 
tion of the correspondents who are going to the war of the 
Soudan without him. 


f 






•V, 


r. 


S' 


o* 






K* . V ^ W. 





% ^ V * * <v 

4^ # l I 9 - ^ A* r 0 N ° + ^ 

J* ,‘l)fc. * c° .VstovI'. c o 

v*cr 



^ * » « o 0 ^ o ♦•#■»•* ^? ^ " 

*> V * * * °* «<•)” S 5 %> 



^ ^ <*, ► 
• A v ♦ -f 

: v^ v • 


A : 

* <*r '^5>> • 

. , 'o,*'* A 0 V \5 «v 

-o J. £££. X <? .^> °o 
o. .o ^ «>* <^ „o 

O W 0 . ^ 

V 



V ‘ . . %>• 2¥T** ^ • ’ *0 

* C\. *0 s * ^ ^ n * * ®/ C\ *0 % s 

•_ c?*- <6. * a* "£- -*'&' v 

• A V «•- 

: * 

; ,«?v -. 

'X 'VY** A <> ' 

- ,- *W%L’ Y 




Aa\>* ° 

** ^ <?* a 

* A <? '0**1 * ,0 

A % .1*4, "V fl|* 

^ fLfrtoZ. + 



aV«** 

4 AV ^ 



++$ 



’’o V* ' 


«0 •/*'. 

> ^ * 
* *) ^ 



Y ** • " * ®* ^ °X"’ , '‘' $-° X* '’•••*' ^ 

> V *"'•• c> jfl .»*^L'» ’V V , 



• % & •tr 

t w * 



% -O 

'*. ^bi> :L ^ 'Y-o^ 



> jp-v *^|&» . 

°4* • ' 1 A 0 ^ ♦owo 0 O «*,,,- A v 

, *0 V %*%!'♦ V A *' • o, x? . 

•o ^ C V ^ ^ 



» YY 


v ^ v r,J b^ » 

V v vj|v <x& *x \**W!5rS v ^ °. 

5 A O 'o • * * <0 V yd A <* '■ 

A^ 1 • *■ * * -9 (A 0 * O ^ t « « 

< .*>8^*. X «° «*^ri' ° A Y 



o .A ^ 

pv Q. 

'cP-. * 0 N o 0 aV 

4. V\ 




-V «»*o^ .f\ V . s * • r _ V. 




O, A 

0 " 3 -» A . t » • 

*b S » < 



• *■••' a . 0 




C*^ ^ r\ •* 

• <£ ^ ’ 4 <L V ci^ *> 

<* '?.?* A 0^ V. 

♦ ^ o^ o 0 " ° «t ^o 

> f Vjr 0 • O 





vv 


c 5 > vp. : 

* 4 / • 

4 * V *, 




O Vv <£» *\j 

% 'Av 

o o ' 

- 4? ^ V^-< 

V r <*'<>*** 

Ay" , t » « _ «£., 

ffr -t 


*VT % A 



O i 

o * -0 ^ 

a 0^ ^ \> *’*o* ^c> -fT «, LVl/< 

* v \, \ 

► ^ °. 

' ■» • * <v w. 

»• ' * * .Or o ° " « + ^b 

• » Sy- 0 •j£$SVW'.» O O ' 

-w r'^M” «%v* : v. "■w 

*>•’ *■«>’•’ A*. ** <^r° 

V »’*•» C\ J,0 V ‘.ToL'-t- "> V 

V ^ <£&, ^ A* *V • 

v^ v ^ ° *• vxy * 

y ^ • SMS# * aV ^ o vJIak * «£ °b • 

\d ^v; s s A <. -"©.a* \Cr \d 

^b . «• ' • * S , o * o . %> 

% ° .<* *>s 0 ^r. v* . ^ ,v^w. ^ J 1 

> 1 




0 w o 



>bv T 



* •< ’ •'** f °° \.^‘ .TT»* ^ 

P' .A A. V 



b V 




N c> ♦ 
■^V’ » 


aV'A *o 
/ o 



► <■„ -w f ,. , 

C> . 0 ^ sLVl' 

♦ *£> ^ 

”, * 

* v 0 ., 

^ 'O.* 4 

> T % 

"• "bV^ .'^^^>*- ^ 0 * 

>* ^ 0 v d«. <j 5 °^. 



A V ♦ - 

* 

y> 'V J . 

? ^ - 


^ 

V A, '»^r , ‘ 

.0 »lVL'» V v **••» 

^ A »■ ^ .* 

• A V * *< 

**V * 


0 " o 


*y .I*#, a* 

u* . •t 



. * <y \ j . 

4-^^^ ^ ^' 4 '‘ ^ ^ 

4 o 

<%T«* ° <N <■ APdf/y/t?-,’ ■» . v CsWWIl'^ 1 ' \>< 


ra^fyjHe, Pa. 
Li 1 — Aug 1985 
w«># i 


)ING IIP T* 


1 Ou#*Kv Bound 



o ^5 °** 
o* ^ °0 



s • • r V 

A. . . 


.V ^ % ( i‘ A 

4 V -Mo. rv .A^ s # • /• 



